


Melian

by Kayasurin



Series: Rise of the Assassins [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: And he's gayer than a flaming fruit basket, Assassin's Creed fusion, But to be fair, F/M, Gen, Jack's a bit freaked out, Jackson was straight, Just manly with it, M/M, Not putting relationships as some of it is spoilers, Parent/Child Incest, Pitch Black leads the Templars, The Animus, The Guardians are Assassins, more characters added as they appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 58,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayasurin/pseuds/Kayasurin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In which the strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jack's been captured by a shadowy organization with strange demands: that he lie down in a strange machine called "the Animus" and relive his ancestor's memories. But the things he learns from Jackson Overland's life will mean life or death, and not just for himself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

"Clean it. I will not have filth in my house."

Which was the point where I realized I was in very, very deep trouble.

The two burly guards hadn't let go of my arms while their boss examined me, so all they had to do was lift a little- I'm not that heavy, they didn't have to strain to get my feet off the floor... not that tall, either, now that I think about it- and then carry me out of the one room, and into another.

I struggled, of course, I'm not the kind of guy who just lies down and accepts when he's beat. It's why I took to the streets in the first place, why I didn't give in and go back, and why I survived ten years invisible and unwanted. But I'd lost my shoes when the thugs grabbed me, so my kicks didn't do anything, and with my arms held, I couldn't punch them. I sure couldn't bite them, either; they held me at as much of a distance as they could, as much to keep me from shedding dirt on their white uniforms as to keep me from hurting them somehow.

Thug one and thug two- I promptly named the one on my left with the badly set nose 'crook', and the other one 'dull' because the lights weren't even on with him, _clearly_ \- dragged me down a short hall. Although dragged is kind of a misnomer, 'cause my feet didn't touch the ground the entire time. Crook opened the door to the new room, and they threw me in.

The wind was knocked out of me, which is the only reason why they got in the room and the door closed before I could jump to my feet and bolt.

Or, okay, stagger to my feet. It'd been a day and a half since I'd last eaten, maybe a little longer, and I was kind of shaky from lack of food. And lack of sleep, 'cause I'd been running ever since I'd noticed the people following me.

The room- well, I wasn't in much condition to observe anything, so what I made out was that it was kind of warm and steamy, the floor was tiled in industrial beige, the walls were tiled in the same color, and there were a bunch of shower stalls down both sides of the room.

I did nothing smarter than stare about me in confusion, up until Dull caught me _by the hair_ and tore my sweater right off me.

Like, right off me! I knew my sweater was old and kind of threadbare, but _really_?

I screamed, and flailed at him. He shook me by the grip he had on my hair, and went for my pants.

Dull needed Crook's help in order to get _those_ off me. And I managed to bite a couple times, too. Less than pleased? You'd better believe it! Dull smacked me across the face, a textbook perfect backhand, rattling me so I fell down (naked- the scenario was shaping up to be one of my nightmares come to life, it was horrible) onto the tile.

Crook bundled my clothes up, holding them at arm's length and with the tips of his fingers, and dumped them in the trash.

Dull grabbed me by the hair again, and pulled me upright with that as a handhold. I screamed with the pain, and clawed at his arm, but he was unmoved. Instead, he half-dragged, half-shoved me into one of the stalls, and turned the water on full blast.

Cold! Granted, I'm used to cold showers- shelters and churches and the occasional unguarded gym showers or swimming pool change rooms never seem to get above lukewarm- but this was crazy! I half expected ice to form on the tiles, it was so cold! I yelped, and tried to get out of the shower stall.

Dull shoved me back in, and then Crook joined him. They stood, glaring at me, while I huddled in the freezing water and tried to protect what little dignity I had left.

At least they didn't try to join me _in_ the water. I'm pretty. It's not a point of pride, I'm not happy about it- really, I wish I weren't. People with jobs and homes and money might prefer to give their spare change to the people on the street who look just like them, maybe a little more ragged, but... the pimps like those people too. Stress might have turned my hair white early, not that you could tell under the dirt, but I'd heard more than one procurer say that added to my 'appeal'.

They could take their appeal and _shove it_. Maybe- _maybe_ \- I'd have had steady meals and a place to call my own if I became a prostitute, but... not likely. And pimps like to hook their merchandise on drugs, keep 'em bound to the life and to the pimp with chains of addiction.

No thank you.

So there I was, under the water, shaking from the cold and the quasi-formless fear that Crook or Dull might start unzipping their pants at any second. The water was starting to warm up, from liquid ice to just _cold_ , but it didn't help with the shivering much.

Crook shifted his weight from one side to the other. "Wash," he said, first proper word I'd heard from him.

I looked from Crook to Dull and back again, and then, keeping most of my attention on them, looked around the shower stall. There was a bar of soap on a little rack attached to the wall, at about waist height.

Soap! I didn't forget about the two thugs, but I did pay them less attention than I probably should have. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used proper soap! It was a good sized bar, too, the size of my palm and it looked like it'd never been used. I grabbed it in both hands, and then began to wash.

The slowly-warming water turned gray as it circled the drain, as I scrubbed and scrubbed. Even at fourteen I'd known that to stay healthy I had to stay clean, and I tried, I did, but that's harder in winter than you'd think. Shelters get full up, churches don't have any more room (and a limited water supply, since even they have to pay a water bill), and even in the best of times it's hard to sneak into a public gym or swimming pool. It's too cold to wash in the lake, if you can find a place private enough to risk it. You sure can't use snow; the stuff in the city is dirty even as it falls to the ground, from all the smog, and again, see too cold.

I concentrated my attention on my skin, and not my hair. It was too tangled, maybe a few weeks from accidental dreadlocks. Adding soap wouldn't have helped anything, and it wouldn't have been possible to get all the soap out, so I'd have had soap drying on my scalp and itching like crazy.

But the rest of me? Oh yes. Even with the two goons watching, I made sure to scrub down everywhere. Face, behind the ears, neck, shoulders, I even managed to contort and twist enough to soap up my own back. I backed into a corner so I could wash between my legs, but Dull and Crook didn't move. They seemed to be ignoring me, even though they didn't once look away. A relief, I don't have to tell you, I'm sure.

I scrubbed and rinsed, scrubbed and rinsed, until the water was actually edging towards warm, and the suds going down the drain were, well, suds, but _clean_ suds. Only then did the thugs move, and seemingly come to life.

"Out," Crook said. Dull reached in and turned off the shower. I put the bar of soap, much reduced, back down on its little rack, and edged out of the shower stall.

Crook gestured me towards a bench, one I hadn't noticed before. I hesitated, so he reached over and gave me a shove.

"Your hair," he said, and moved over to a shelving unit. He turned around with heavy scissors in hand.

Ah. I sat down, and did my best to stop trembling. It didn't work very well.

Crook moved behind me, and started chopping at my hair. Tangled hanks fell down, littering the floor. After several minutes, Crook stopped chopping, and moved back to the shelving unit. I twisted to keep an eye on him. He pulled out an electric razor.

"What?" I stood up, and began backing away. "Oh no. No. Put that down, not happening, I will bite you again!"

Dull must have moved as silently as a rat, because I didn't notice him until he'd grabbed me from behind, each hand seeming as large as my upper arms. He shoved me forwards, and no matter how I struggled, I couldn't stop it.

"You have fleas," Crook said, and turned on the razor.

I held still while they were actually shaving my head. Once my hair had been clipped off so I was, to all intents and purposes, bald, I was shoved back into the shower again. This time, I soaped up the top of my head too.

I sniffed carefully at the soap while I washed, paying more attention now that I was mostly clean. The soap smelt like chemicals. Something to kill the fleas? They weren't something I noticed anymore; you pick them up fast, living on the streets. Not only do you get 'em sleeping rough, or from encounters with the stray animals, but the other people on the streets. You sleep huddled together for warmth, and the fleas move from one body to the next. You share clothes, because maybe your jacket's too big for you but not for that guy, and maybe he'll trade you the jacket for the oversized pair of jeans just your size.

I first got fleas within two, three months of being on the street. After another month, I stopped noticing how much I itched.

Long sleeves had always covered up how my arms were scratched half raw, or the welts from the flea bites. I suddenly had the feeling that, if I was stuck here for a few weeks, those scratches and bites might just heal up. It didn't make being here any more tolerable- in fact, the idea was pretty repugnant, still and always- but it was something to file away in the back of my mind while I washed.

Once more, Crook ordered me out of the shower, and this time I got a towel. I dried off, keeping my back to the wall, while Dull watched me and Crook rummaged through the shelving unit again. He pulled out a pair of flannel trousers, either part of a light track suit or pajama pants, at this distance I couldn't tell, and a t-shirt.

He tossed the clothes at me. "Put 'em on," he said.

Well, clothes. Who was I to turn down clothes? It felt weird not to wear underwear, though; over the years I'd made sure to wear it. Underwear was another layer, something that helped with insulation- not much, I'll admit, but every little bit counts- and was something I could keep on while in a public shower or something. Things were dangling that, really, hadn't been dangling for a long time. You don't get naked when you're homeless, there's never a good time or place.

I felt better once I was clothed, dangling aside, and didn't protest over much when Dull and Crook each planted a meaty hand on my shoulders and steered me out the door. I had neither socks nor shoes, but apparently that didn't matter. Considering we were still inside, I suppose it didn't. The pants were long enough that I was walking on the hems, which wasn't so bad. Protected my toes from the drafts, at least a little.

I was half guided, half shoved down the hallway to an elevator. I looked around as we walked, but my brief surge of adrenaline in the showers was fading, so I was back to not noticing much of anything. The floor was covered in cheap carpet, the Berber kind that unraveled like a sweater when you pulled on a loose thread. The carpet was an odd shade of maroon. The walls were painted, not papered, in beige. There was a ceiling and a few lights, though I couldn't tell what kind of lights. The long tubes that buzzed when it was really quiet, whatever.

I did note, when Dull punched the buttons for the elevator and we got on, that we were on what looked like the... second basement level, and Crook hit the button for what was probably right under the penthouse, if this place had a penthouse.

Where _was_ this place, anyways? Were we even still in Manhattan? I'd been grabbed from where I'd been sleeping, a back alley behind a Gino's Pizza that looked the other way when dumpster divers- like yours truly- looked through the garbage for rejected or half eaten meals. One man's trash was another man's lunch. I'd managed to make a rough shelter under a fire escape, something that'd keep the worst of the snow off, and I'd been sharing with three kids freshly escaped from juvie. I'd been telling them what they needed to know, in between advising them to get the heck off the streets and stay away from drugs.

I don't know if they'd been listening to me or not. I want to think that they were, that for all they thought I was hysterically funny or lying through my teeth, that they were considering skipping over a state line or two and finding a place that'd pay them under the table, a library that wouldn't ask too many questions so they could study for a GED, so that they could find even a shithole of an apartment that they could afford between the three of them- and eat, too.

Maybe the fact that I hadn't done the same worked against me, but... I don't know.

I was running from something, even if I could no longer remember _what_.

I held my tongue in the elevator, held my tongue as we reached the freaking 49th floor, as I was shoved down a hallway and through a door into... into I don't even know what.

It looked like half of it was a computer lab, the other an extremely clean apartment. El Creepo, he who had sentenced me to the cold shower and hair shaving, stood in the middle of the room. I felt myself shrink back just looking at him. He looked like the stereotypically nasty undertaker, tall and gaunt, with short black hair, very pale skin, a jutting prow of a nose, an older fashioned suit- black, of course- and glowing yellow eyes.

Wait. Glowing yellow eyes? That... was not normal.

"Ah, here we are," he said, voice as nasty and oily as his appearance. He sounded delighted, the jerk. "Jack Frost, how good to finally meet you."

... Okay. Creepy guy knew who I was. "Can't say the same," I said. "Your invitation sucked."

Creepy guy chuckled, and walked forward. The two thugs moved back, leaving me standing some feet into the room while he circled me, looking me over. It wasn't even vaguely sexual, nothing like the occasional procurer that managed to corner me. No, it was more like... well, like he was looking over a piece of meat and trying to decide if I was worth buying.

"Yes," he said, "you'll do. You'll do quite nicely."

I scowled. "What, are you trying to win an award for creepiest skeezeball on the planet?"

Creepy guy stopped circling, and stared at me. The stare had all the force of a _glare_ , but none of the anger behind it. I, however, _was_ glaring right back, lips pressed tight together and fists clenched so they wouldn't tremble.

This guy... I knew, somehow, that _this_ guy was the one who'd had me snatched up.

And... there wasn't anyone who'd go looking for me. The kids I'd been talking to, they might worry a bit, but they might not. And even if they did worry, even if they went to the cops... the cops wouldn't do anything. Not until a body showed up. Even then...

Fact of life, vagrants are mobile. Nothing holds us down, so if we really want to move somewhere else? We'll do it. Because there's a better food source somewhere else, because a new shelter's opened up and we want a spot in the warm, because the local gang has decided they want to _hurt you_ and it's leave or die... Toss in how busy cops are, they can't track down every homeless guy who decides to up stakes and move over to Queens or something.

And the homeless die... a lot. From illness, because we can't exactly go to the doctor, so we die of infected splinters and whatever virus is making the rounds. From exposure, because a good winter jacket costs _money_ , and people who're homeless typically don't have a lot of that. From long term malnutrition, which is just a nice way of saying the cheapest food isn't healthy so you're starving your body of nutrients and then you get scurvy and your teeth fall out, and... yeah. From old age, sometimes. From getting into fights with other homeless people, or gang members, feral animals, or... something.

Police are busy. So long as a dead vagrant doesn't look like he's been beaten to death, or chopped up into pieces by a serial killer, they're probably going to write it off as something more benign, like hypothermia turned deadly. And they're most likely to be right.

So no one was going to be looking for me. No one had seen me get taken, I don't think. Creepy guy pretty much had me at his mercy, the thugs sure weren't going to speak up for me, and I didn't even know where we were. It'd been a closed van and I'd been hauled out into an underground garage.

Great. Was this guy a serial killer?

I wasn't getting that vibe, though. You learn to recognize the crazy killers, or you become their victims. This guy... he was scary, but he was sane, which was somehow worse. A crazy killer isn't necessarily insane, but they'll cut a man, watch him bleed, because it amuses them. Because they enjoy inflicting pain. Because they _need_ it. Sane guys are worse, in my opinion. When they deliberately inflict pain, it's not because they necessarily enjoy it- it's because inflicting pain makes _sense_ to them. It's _reasonable_. They'll do it if it's the best idea they have to get whatever they're after. And they'll kill for the same reasons.

This guy had picked me for something other than dismemberment. Which was good, really it was, but...

If I hadn't been grabbed for sex or to kill, why _had_ I been snatched up?

"My dear Jack, forgive me my impertinence. I couldn't take the risk you would succumb to any one of a number of threats to your... ah, health. My name is Kozmotis Pitchner Black... Please. Call me Pitch."

Did I have to? I shook my head, eyes narrowed.

Creepy guy, Pitch, began circling me again. And, not that I'd swear on a stack of your choice of holy relics or anything, but... purring.

"Oh, yes," he murmured. "You will do very well. You're practically the spitting image..."

Spitting image? Spitting image of _what_? "Hey, freak show," I said, which is where he...

He...

Ouch.

I sat up, one hand automatically coming up to cradle my sore jaw, even as I blinked frantically to get the three images to coalesce into one.

 _Ow_. Very, very ow.

He backhanded me. And... ouch at that thought there... I think he'd been pulling the blow. And I'd _still_ gone flying.

"You will address me," Pitch said, voice dangerously low, "with respect. Or else this will go quite poorly for you. Yes," he said, looking away, as though he was talking to himself now, "very poorly indeed..."

Note taken. "Okay," I said, voice shaking. That seemed to please him; at least, his lips curved faintly upwards. "Fine. _Mr_. Freak Show, then. What'd you grab me for?"

Pitch glared at me, and took two steps closer. I froze, stupid reflex but I couldn't make my body move. Not even a twitch of my fingers. My fear was visible to anyone with working eyes and two brain cells to rub together... and maybe even without working eyes, who knows? My fear seemed to please him, though, and he stopped moving forward and smirked.

"As for why I brought you here... That does require a bit of explanation, my dear. Come, come, take a seat, I will explain everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is more of a fusion than actual crossover, borrowing elements from Assassin's Creed without, actually, using any of their characters. Some plot ideas, though. Okay, a lot of plot ideas. And everyone go thank Corgi, who not only beta'd this (he tends to beta all my stuff, bless him, it'd be a full time job if I could afford to cut him a paycheck...) but is helping me research the historical Assassin Plot stuff.
> 
> Also... FUCK YOU FIRST PERSON WHY THE HELL ARE YOU SO FUCKING DIFFICULT?!
> 
> Sorry. Had to get that off my chest.


	2. Chapter Two

I sat down on the couch. What else could I do? Crook and Dull flanked me behind the couch back. Pitch was there, and between the two thugs and the freak show... My options were currently limited to 'smile pretty and sit where I'm told', although without the smiling pretty.

Pitch smiled at me. His teeth were yellowed and crooked, and looked a little like he'd had them filed into points. That couldn't be right...

"What do you know of your family, Jack?" Pitch asked.

I did my best not to react. The thing is, I don't remember anything from before I'm fourteen. I know the basics, what I've been told, and sometimes I think I've dreamt something or...

I know my name is Jack Frost; that's what the doctor at the hospital called me, when I was fourteen and recovering from breathing in frozen lake water. I know that I was found, half-dead and mostly submerged in an icy lake. I know that a girl later identified as my sister was pulled out of the lake. I know that I didn't have any identifying documents on me when I was rescued, and no one came forward to claim me as their son.

That's all I know.

Pitch let me sit in silence for a good two minutes, which felt like two hours, before he started talking again. "I know about your family. And what an _interesting_ family it is, too. I could tell you about them, if you wanted. Help you find your past."

Great offer, except for one thing. Skanky shady character making it.

I ducked my head, the better to hide my expression, and concentrated on breathing. _In_ two three _out_ two three four... repeat several times until I had control over myself.

"Even if I could trust you," which, let's not kid ourselves, I _can't_ , "why would you do that?"

"A little quid pro quo... tit for tat, if you will." Pitch eyed me, from shaved head down to bare feet, and his upper lip curled just a little. "I do something for you, you do something for me."

What, did he think I was uneducated? Sure, I hadn't finished high school, since I'd only lasted eight months in the foster care system before escaping juvie, but libraries are one of the best places to spend your time. Air conditioned in summer, heated in winter... And unlike a mall, no tantalizing aromas of food at the food court you can't buy 'cause you have no money. Librarians are generally pretty nice. As long as you're not making a ruckus and don't look and smell like something pulled out of a sewer, they'll leave you alone.

I could probably get my GED, if I tried. And had the money.

Still, better not to let the freak show know that. The stupider he thought I was- let's face it- the more he'd underestimate me. He might even underestimate me enough that I'd be able to escape. So I looked dubious, instead of telling him he was insane if he thought I'd help him in any way, shape, or form.

"Do what?" I asked. It was a good question, after all; what could one homeless man, presumably uneducated, do for someone like Pitch? Presumably, he was rich, or working for someone rich. The whole setup screamed of money. Fact of life, people with money get away with a hell of a lot more than people who don't have it can.

Rich guy gets caught drinking and driving, he pays a fine, does some community service, but that's pretty much it. Poor guy might end up going to jail. And there's a limit to how much can be fined, too, which means the fines hurt the poor guy more than they hurt the rich guy.

It annoys me. It annoys me a lot.

"Ah, as to that..." Pitch sat down on the coffee table. It looked absurd, with his suit and all. "Let me tell you about the Animus."

And then he laid out a scenario that belonged, properly, to bad action movie plots and video games.

"I'm sure you know that birds and insects migrate hundreds of thousands of miles each year?" Pitch's expression said he was dubious, even though his voice was warm.

It reminded me a bit of oil heating over a fire to the boil, actually.

"Sure," I said, and then couldn't resist adding, "monarch butterflies migrate from Mexico up to Canada and back again, but because of the lifespan, it takes a generation just to fly up from Mexico to Canada, a generation living in Canada, then a generation to fly back down to Mexico. But somehow the butterflies still trace the same path over and over, going to the same place down in Mexico for the winter."

I paused, and added, "It's probably magic."

I could practically hear Pitch's teeth grinding together. "Yes," he said. "That is the general idea. There is a belief in some circles that it is a form of genetic memory, this migration, and that humans have the same. Instinct, and all that. The cumulative effect of one's ancestors surviving danger after danger and passing on the genetic memory to their decedents."

I nodded, as if that made all kinds of sense. Which... I suppose, in a way, it did. The monkey that paid attention to the little hairs on the back of its neck escaped the stalking tiger, while the one that didn't got munched. Okay, fine.

But that's where it took a turn into the weird.

"The Animus is a device capable of accessing this genetic memory, enabling an individual to relive his ancestor's life. The closer you are to your ancestor- such as the same gender and close in age- the easier it is to relive the memory. You," Pitch said, raking me up and down with his eyes again, "are the spitting image of Jackson Overland, whose life I'm so interested in."

"What, you're looking to write a history paper on him or something?" I asked. Which, clearly not. You do not kidnap people and toss a lunatic theory at them for a _history paper_ , you just don't. Not even the craziest of crazy people do that. I folded my arms. "This Animus thing, it doesn't sound that safe."

"Oh, it's safe enough. Too long in it and... well, that's why you will be closely monitored."

Will. As if I didn't have a choice.

I took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. There's always a choice. I could choose to refuse, and I'd probably be beaten up until I changed my mind and agreed. And if I didn't change my mind, I'd probably be killed.

If I did agree... it'd be time. I was sure that Pitch would have me killed once he'd gotten whatever he wanted from this whole Animus insanity, or realized it wasn't working, whichever, but until then I'd have time to scope out the place, time to plan... Time to make a chance for escape.

"Family history is great and all," I said, thinking about what he'd said. My history. "But that won't put food on the table... or get me a table at all."

"Ah," Pitch said, eyes lighting up. Literally. Very creepy. Maybe the light his eyes cast was less than a very dim flashlight with a few layers of tissue paper over the bulb, but eyes aren't supposed to do even that much. "Money. What would you say, then, if I told you I could put a million dollars in a bank account, just for you, for when I get what I want?"

A million dollars.

Even though I knew it was a crook, that he was a lying scumbag and once he got what he wanted I was deader than a decapitated zombie...

A million dollars.

That'd be a house. Food. Investment. New clothes.

I knew better, but... I wanted to believe, just for a moment.

"Put it in writing and we've got a deal," I said.

A million dollars. Hah. I was going to have to run far and fast once I escaped. Pitch would not be happy.

* * *

The Animus was on the computer lab side of the floor. It looked a lot like a fancy bed, a really fancy bed. It was mostly flat, though the head was raised up about three inches, and a lot of computer stuff with blinking lights was arrayed around the head of the bed. It looked like some of the blinky computer bits were meant to swing over the face of whoever was using the fancy bed thing. It was all chrome steel, white plastic, and white cushions.

I didn't like the look of it, not one bit.

I circled the machine warily, and when I looked up, Pitch and the goons had been joined by a short woman with wild-colored hair.

And when I say short, I mean _short_. I'm roughly five foot four, and she was two inches shorter than me. She looked Eurasian, to my untrained and probably incorrect eyes, with dusky skin, wide, dark blue eyes that looked violet in the right light, and a facial structure that just said 'Indian' to me. The rest of her didn't; the rest of her said 'punk' and 'doctor', because her short hair was green-blue with one streak of gold at the front, and under the white lab coat was a green and blue halter top in eye-searing colors, and tight purple leggings with artful rips across the thighs.

"Jack, please meet Dr. Akilah Dantali, the Animus' head programmer and your personal medic."

Dr. Dantali smiled nervously at me, but I couldn't really blame her. She worked for Pitch, I was sure nervous was her natural state of being.

"Why do I need a personal medic?" I asked, seeming to study the Animus some more. Really, I was watching Pitch and Dantali from the corner of my eye. I had better peripheral vision than most people thought.

"Oh, just to keep watch on your vital signs, nothing serious," Pitch said.

Dantali winced.

Okay, something serious after all, but I couldn't point out that I knew that. Great. Just great. Instead, I nodded, and reached out to poke at one of the blinking lights.

"Oh, no, don't do that," Dantali said, speaking so quickly I was reminded of auctioneers. She wasn't quite that fast, but close.

"Why?" I asked, and looked up.

"It's very fragile." She glanced towards Pitch, and then away. "Very- you should just leave it to me."

Right, right. I backed off, and folded my arms for lack of pockets. Why did I have the feeling Pitch was the kind who'd happily leave bruises on his employees as well as his captives?

Maybe because the employees- at least, this employee- seemed like a captive, too?

I didn't like that thought, but what could I do? She was one of Pitch's minions, whether she wanted to be or not. She was, therefore, my enemy.

"Why don't we, ah, run a quick test?" Dantali said, and patted the Animus' cushions. "Hop on up, we'll just make sure we can get you reliving Jackson Overland."

"How will you know?" I asked, not moving a single step.

"All I can do from here is monitor your brainwaves," Dantali said. She pointed to a bank of computer monitors. "Well, brainwaves and other indicators. Trust me. If it's working, you'll know."

She looked worried when she said it. Not a good sign.

I sighed, and nodded. Alright, fine. The bed was actually pretty comfortable; nothing I'd want to sleep on, but not bad. Of course, considering I was used to sleeping on piles of broken down cardboard boxes, the _'I don't want to sleep here'_ had more to do with blinking lights and the creep-master himself standing at the foot of the 'bed'.

Dantali fussed with the various computer bits, some of which did, in fact, swing around so that they were in front of my face. "You might hear an odd hum, to start," she said. I heard the click-clack of keyboard keys as she typed away at something. "That's just the machine, ah, revving up, you could say. Audible and visual wavelengths will send you into the trance, and then, we'll see won't we?"

Audible and visual wavelengths? Sounded like an induced hallucination to me.

I nodded, and Dantali directed me to 'look into the blinking green light'.

So I did. And yeah, I heard a hum. And the light seemed to get closer and brighter.

And-

* * *

_"Y'know, mate," Aster said, grinning. Jackson grinned back, as much from nerves as good humor. It'd only been three weeks since he'd partnered with Aster. Only three weeks since the head of the_ entire organization _had singled him out for special training. Only three weeks to get used to, if that were possible, the small matter that Aster, leader of the Assassins, was not_ human _._

_"No matter how many times we do this-"_

_Not human, not even close. Tall, maybe six feet or so, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Gray fur covering everything, presumably, although the long green coat and the smart waistcoat hid a lot._

_"-no matter how many times I think they'll tighten security-"_

_Long, upright ears, forward facing eyes, and a rabbit's twitching nose._

_"-they never do, do they?"_

_Jackson shook his head, and lifted his staff. "No, they don't. You're leading?"_

_"Still a youngster, you are. Course I am. Let's go."_

* * *

- _What the_ **_fucking hell_**?

"He desynchronized," Dantali yelled.

I flailed my arms, and managed to flop off the Animus without cracking my head open on the computer bits. I hit the ground hard, enough that I couldn't breathe for a second, but then I scrambled up onto my feet and bolted for the door.

I never made it.

Pitch grabbed me by the shoulder, and threw. I hit the wall really close to the ceiling- in fact, my head might've hit the acoustic sound tiles instead of the plaster wall- and then dropped straight down onto a demon spiky thing with ill intent towards my knee.

Or, you know, a plastic trash can that shattered when I landed on it, one giant piece digging under my knee cap and drawing blood.

Whichever. Point is, it hurt.

"And where do you think you're going?" Pitch asked, stalking forward.

Shock and pain had clearly shut off my self-preservation instinct. " _Away_. You people are crazy! I'm not lying down for any more of this Animus stuff with the hallucinations and giant rabbits and crazy- craziness!"

Pitch snarled, grabbed me by the throat, and lifted me up with one hand and apparently no effort. He looked ready to throw me again, but then paused. "Giant... You saw the Pooka?"

The what? I clawed at Pitch's arm, but he didn't seem to notice, and my ragged fingernails couldn't exactly leave a mark. "- _down_ -" I managed, through lack of air and a compressed larynx.

He dropped me. On top of the broken waste basket.

Bastard.

"Did you see the giant rabbit, Jack?" Pitch crooned. He crouched down and ran his fingers over my head, smiling. This close... Yeah. His teeth came to sharp points, like triangles. My brain immediately jumped to anacondas. Maybe it should've gone to sharks instead, but I'd never seen a shark before, while anacondas... A few. Which is kind of disturbing on a whole other level, but there you are.

"Your machine makes people hallucinate," I rasped, doing my best to pull away. Pinned with my back to the wall, that wasn't very easy.

"Not at all, my dear Jack, not at all." Pitch caressed my head again, and stood up. "You saw the last Pooka. I assure you, you were not hallucinating. You were reliving your ancestor's, Jackson Overland's, memories."

"That's crazy." I didn't move. I probably couldn't, at that point. " _You're_ crazy."

"Hardly." Pitch moved away, and circled the Animus. He stroked it as lovingly as he'd stroked my shaved head, which... creepy amounts, is how much. "Is it the fact that we're hunting a giant rabbit, Jack? Is that what's the problem here?"

I sat up, moving off the broken waste basket, and glared. "There is no such thing as a giant rabbit." Unless you're into fur suits. And I highly doubted there were _fur suits_ in the year of... ah...

_... in the year of our Lord 1698..._

I shook my head, as if that would fling the not-me tidbit from my brain. Because that _wasn't_ me. I knew it wasn't me, because I didn't think that way. No 'year of our lord' nonsense. I hadn't even known that was a way to phrase dates, because who the hell talked like that?

And how did I come up with the year? 1698? What even happened in 1698? Not the potato famine... Did they even _have_ potatoes back then? Wasn't that a more modern invention?

That couldn't be right.

"Oh, but there is," Pitch said. I hauled my brain back on track. Right, right, no such thing as giant rabbits/oh but there is. Okay then. "The Pooka aren't of Earth, Jack. You were looking at an alien."

I stared at him. An alien. Was he- "You're not fucking serious," I said. "Look. You've been baking your brain in that thing," I gestured to the Animus, "too long. There's no proof of aliens, no such thing as giant, talking rabbits, no- just because you ate pepperoni before bed and thought the whacko dreams afterwards was real-"

" _Enough_ ," Pitch snarled.

And then he...

... he _changed_.

It- he didn't- he was still him- but-

I cowered backwards, arms raised to protect my face. Even so, I couldn't help but see.

Darkness. Shadows, moving, writhing like living things. Glowing yellow eyes boring into me.

Falling.

No, not falling.

Sinking.

I was sinking, oh god, and it was so cold. The weak sunlight filtered through the thin ice overhead, and through the water, and I was sinking-

And then it was over.

Pitch adjusted his jacket cuff, as though turning into a nasty demonic _thing_ was an everyday occurrence. Dantali was curled up in a ball on the floor, whimpering. The thugs, Crook and Dull, were unconscious or dead. I couldn't tell from where I was huddled, and they didn't seem to be breathing.

"As I was saying," Pitch said, and smiled at me. "Pooka are aliens, that happen to look like giant rabbits. I am looking for him, and your ancestor's memories will give me the key to his location. _You_ ," he said, eyes glowing again, " _will_ go through your ancestor's memories, and you _will_ answer my questions. Do you understand me?"

Oh yeah, I understood him alright. I understood that if I didn't do as he told me, he'd turn into that thing again.

And then I would _die_.

I understood him perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And explanations and an experience in the Animus. And no, Jack's not a newbie at this, Pitch. He knows you're as honorable as a... boogieman.


	3. Chapter Three

Dantali recovered faster than I did. She told Pitch- I don't know how, since I personally was ready to vomit from terror- but she told him that it'd be pointless to put me back in the Animus until I'd had some time to process and something to eat.

"He's fifty pounds underweight," she said, which I thought a gross exaggeration. "The Animus puts a tremendous strain on the body. If you don't want... I want him to reach a healthy weight before spending hours in the machine."

Hours? _Hours_?

I looked at Pitch, and flinched away. Okay, if it kept him off my back, I'd be willing to do hours.

Pitch sniffed, and inclined his head. "Oh, very well. I expect some progress made each day," he warned.

"It depends on how often he desynchronizes with the Animus," Dantali said, sounding stiff and looking even more so. "Syncing and desyncing puts the greatest strain on the body. As I put in my reports."

Pitch waved one hand, the way busy people did to brush away annoying details. "Yes, yes. And you."

I was pinned under his gold eyes. Was I frightened? Hell, yeah. Was I going to give him the satisfaction of flinching or cringing? Hell, _no_. I lifted my chin and glared at him, from my undignified spot huddled against the wall.

"You had best behave yourself. If you deliberately delay, for any reason..." Pitch held up one hand. There was a writhing shadow-tentacle beast-thing on his palm. If I tilted my head slightly and squinted, it looked like he was holding a bunch of dismembered penis-worms.

"You'll pull an Ursula?" I asked. Turn me into a grotesque sea worm-thing? That was... an odd threat.

Pitch looked confused. "What?" Then he scowled at me. "Never mind- just don't delay, or _I'll_ deal with you!"

Maybe it was childish, but I just couldn't resist sticking my tongue out at his back when he left.

Dantali helped me up off the floor once Pitch and his thugs were gone. Although how the thugs had left, I don't know- maybe they'd woken up and crawled away while Pitch was being threatening. All my attention had been on him, with nothing left over for mundane details like hired muscle.

"Did you reference Disney?" she asked.

"Little Mermaid," I agreed, stepping backwards as politely as I could. Not very, but details. Besides, Dantali worked for Pitch. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't that concerned with her feelings.

She smiled at me as though she'd heard that, and wasn't at all insulted. Well, not much. "Why don't we have dinner?"

"Why don't you answer my questions first?"

"We could always do both," she suggested. "Although... I really want to do a medical exam, if you don't mind."

Uh, no, I did mind- but at the same time... "What kind of medical exam?" I asked, suspiciously. "Does it come with a flu shot?"

Because I hadn't had a flu shot in... Well, not since I'd first woken up in the hospital. A decade, maybe closer to eleven years now. Mind, apparently I was healthy as the proverbial horse, since over the years I'd managed to avoid everything but the classic cough and runny nose, but still. It'd be nice to get my vaccines.

"I have the equivalent of a fully stocked medical clinic," Dantali told me, "and the training to use it all properly. Flu shot is nothing."

So it turned out. I got the full workup- everything from Dantali taking my measurements (5'4", 95 lbs, and I made her check my weight five times before I accepted that I actually weighed that little) to drawing blood for testing and giving me every last vaccine I'd missed. She muttered over the way my ribs stood out, or how my wrist bones were so visible, and asked about my hair and eyes.

I told her it was none of her business, and then snuck a peek at her clipboard where she was writing down her records. She'd put down 'albino' which wasn't right.

I'd had brown hair when I'd been in the hospital, but it'd started going gray even before I was discharged. By the time I'd spent a full year on the streets, it'd run past gray and settled firmly on white. That was good, actually. Gray hair, at least my gray hair, had been stiffer, more brittle, than either brown or white. As for my eyes, they'd always been blue.

Still, I left it alone. Not that I knew much about albinos, other than the fact that they looked like someone had dunked them in a vat of bleach, but I was pretty sure they had health issues I didn't. The more people underestimated me, the better.

Once we finished with my exam, Dantali insisted on dinner, and I sure wasn't going to argue. Dinner turned out to be a Cesar salad, which she made from a head of lettuce and a bunch of vegetables, only half of which I recognized, right there at the counter while I watched. There was spaghetti too. I passed on the sauce, only because it was a meat sauce.

I tried my best to be vegetarian. At least when an apple went bad, you didn't get salmonella or something. It just tasted sour.

"I imagine you're curious about the Animus," Dantali said over dinner. The way she said it, it was like she figured the exact opposite.

"Actually, I am. How does it work?" I ate a mouthful of salad. "It does something to my brain, doesn't it? Am I going to have an aneurism if this keeps going?"

Dantali looked at me with a new respect. "No, no aneurism. It doesn't affect your brain chemistry or makeup at all, it just makes your synapses fire in a certain way." She ate several bites of her food, slowly, clearly thinking it over. "What are your thoughts on reincarnation?"

"I think that twelve people shouldn't be able to remember being Cleopatra, all at the same time. I think hypnosis is a crook, and psychics are grifters. Never seen any evidence, or anything that'd make me think 'real'." I remembered my brief experience in the Animus, though, and very deliberately didn't shiver. That didn't count.

"Fair enough. Here's my theory, though. Memories are- they are. The brain does amazing things as it creates and stores memories, and when we recall things. Energy can't be destroyed, it can only be changed. And it's my belief that the act of creating and storing those memories creates an echo in the world's energy- into several forms of collective unconsciousness, if you will."

Uh huh, right. I thought I remembered reading something like that in a philosophy text. "Doesn't sound any crazier than a celestial revolving door for souls," I said.

Dantali grinned at me. "Glad to hear I don't sound crazy," she said. I made a face at her. "Two kinds of records. Memory records, I mean. There's the collective unconscious, which only goes back to the oldest person alive. Currently alive, I mean. That's where you get deja vu, odd flashes of insight, or how some people just seem to _know_ each other on the moment of their meeting."

I gave that due consideration. "Okay," I said, after several minutes. "Not saying I buy it, but okay. I think I can suspend my disbelief enough to follow you, anyways."

"Right," Dantali said. She took a drink of her water. "So, that's the collective unconscious. Anyone can tap into it, no special preparations needed, and what you get out of it tends to be vague, might be slightly off or completely wrong."

"Group think?" I asked.

"More like mob mentality. Have you heard the old saying? The intelligence of a mob can be measured by taking its smartest member, and dividing by the number of people in the group."

No, I hadn't, but it sounded funny. I snickered. "Okay. You think this collective unconscious is why people in a mob will do things they never would normally?"

"Well, peer pressure helps, but yes. I think emotions charge and strengthen what's being put into the collective unconscious. The more experiences that are similar, the stronger the emotions, and you get an echoing effect, with the echoes amplifying what people feel, and making it so anyone nearby gets caught in it."

I nodded, to show I was following along.

"There's an older record," Dantali said. "I call it the archives, and here's where we get twelve people remembering being Cleopatra. Everyone's experiences, their memories, goes into this archive. Boring moments, exciting, lethal... all of it. From birth to death, and the archives go back all the way to the first proto-human when he climbed down out of the trees."

Weirdly enough, I picked at the stupidest thing. "He?" I asked. "Why should the first proto-human be a he?"

Dantali gave me a look. "Because testosterone poisoning. Think about it. 'Hey guys, guess what? I just spent a month living out in the dangerous open ground and I'm not dead. Ladies, I'm hot stuff, make babies with me.'"

I cracked up laughing.

"Okay," I said, when I calmed down. "Continue, please."

She smiled at me. "So, the archives. Everyone's in it, all the way back to the beginning. Like... like a computer's hard drive, maybe? Anyways, people can access the archives if they're in the right state of mind- either because of meditation, drugs, or an induced state brought on by hypnotism or what have you. And either they are related to the person whose memories they hop into, or there's some other tie of similarity, like personality, or life experiences. Or desperation, maybe."

"Like, what, they don't think they're very special in real life, but they want to be, so they get hypnotised and really, really want to be Cleopatra?"

"That could be. Or they're set up, told by the psychic they're seeing that they were Cleopatra, and if they only pay a few hundred dollars more they can remember their previous life." Dantali shrugged. "The Animus is meant to do the same sort of thing, but very, very controlled."

I must have looked dubious, because she half laughed, half sighed. It sounded weird. "I'm just the doctor. Pitch..." She looked down at her now mostly empty plate. "He brought me in when it was finished, and they were done testing. It works. The Animus ensures that when you... when you access the archives, I guess, you go to a specific person's life. Always an ancestor's. Well," she said, correcting herself, "you can go to a non-ancestor's, but... the results aren't good."

"Results," I said, the back of my neck suddenly crawling. "How do you mean, they're not good?"

"You were _kidnapped_ ," Dantali snapped. "Threatened by a _monster_. What do you _think_ , Jack?"

I flinched back, then got up and walked over to the windows. It was the first time I'd taken a look outside them, and the Manhattan skyline wasn't nearly as reassuring as I'd have figured it'd be. Sure, I was still in New York, but she was right. I'd been kidnapped, threatened by something that shouldn't exist. Magic or... maybe Pitch was a kind of demon or something. Monster, anyways.

Someone like that wouldn't _care_ about his test subjects. "How did they die?" I asked.

"I stopped reading reports somewhere after the woman who tried to hack out her own uterus because she'd been living her many-times-great-grandfather's life and became convinced she was supposed to have a penis, and the man who hung himself. Apparently he'd been made to relive an ancestor's death a few dozen times. A former slave owner that was hung, so he hung himself."

I shuddered. "And now?"

"The closer you are to the target, the better," Dantali said, speaking briskly. Maybe to try and drive off the mental images the reports had given her, I don't know. I knew I was going to be having nightmares, and now they'd include the other victims of Pitch's...

What? Obsession?

"The same gender, same age range, and related. That seems to work best. Of course, we also want a few degrees of separation, so the bleeding effect is lessened."

"Bleeding effect?" I turned away from the windows. Something was ticking at the back of my mind, something about the memory of...

_Jackson Overland._

Yeah. Him. My ancestor, I _knew_ it, the same way I knew where my hands and feet were without having to look. It didn't clarify, though, so I ignored it. Left alone, the little niggle would eventually make sense.

"Bleeding effect," Dantali said. She began clearing the table. Apparently she was done, and the thought of eating anything else made me feel sick to my stomach. Mental images, maybe, or just the fact that it'd been a while since I'd eaten a full meal of anything, let alone of good food.

"The bleeding effect is a nice way to say your ancestor's habits and thought patterns will begin to carry over to your waking self. In extreme cases, your ancestor's mindset could overwrite yours, to the point where you think you _are_ your ancestor. And no, I wasn't here for those, ah, subjects. And yes, they died."

I moved over and helped her load the dishwasher. It was a small one, a model that was apparently meant to sit on top of the counter, only big enough for a few plates and glasses, or maybe two small pots. Just the right size for the debris from our dinner.

Dantali started talking again, as though she'd never stopped. "The closer you are to your ancestor- gender, age, life experiences- the faster the effect takes place. The further you are, the slower the effect is- until you go crazy and decide you're actually a woman and you shouldn't have that penis hanging between your legs, that is."

I shuddered, and covered my groin with one hand. She smiled at me.

And then it hit me. "Uh. Dantali?"

"Call me Tooth."

I... was going to leave that and come back to it later. "Fine. Just, the thing is, that brief flash of... of Overland? I, uh, he was straight."

He was an ancestor, which assumed grandfather some way's back, so of course he'd had children. But bi was always an option, or- considering the time period- in the closet gay. It is possible for a gay guy to have sex with a woman and father children, same way it's possible for a straight guy to have sex with another guy. Hell, love someone enough... I was pretty sure one anime or something called it 'If it's you, it's okay' or something. One of those "I'm not attracted to your gender, but you yourself go beyond that for me".

Either that or a good imagination, who knows? Me, well... I'm so far down on the gay scale that I'm pretty sure the only way I'd be with a woman would be if she were transsexual or something, either a woman in a man's body or a man in a woman's body who'd had gender reassignment.

Overland, though... Yeah. The little niggle at the back of my mind had finally moved forward.

Overland was straight. Straighter than a ruler. Not that I'd seen much, maybe a minute or two of his memories, and he certainly hadn't been dwelling on women or anything, but... No idea what I'd picked up on, but yeah.

"And...?" Dantali asked me, looking suspicious.

"Well, I'm not!"

She blinked, then opened and closed her mouth a few times. Finally, "You're _gay_?" she asked.

I scowled. "What, were you expecting a dress or something? _Yeah_ , I'm gay." Sheesh, why did people expect gay guys to be all feminine, with long hair flowing in the breeze and all that nonsense?

Me, I liked a lot of manly things, mostly because I'd been too busy to actually _do_ any of it. I lusted over cars, as much because they were beautiful as because they were _way_ out of my reach. I didn't have any favorite sports or teams, but I wanted to. Beer? Maybe if it wasn't the cheapest thing available for Slim Jim or Toothless Dan to buy and share around, it'd be good. Shooting the breeze- that, I did, with the other people on the street. Nothing much else to do, really, when you think about it. Trade notes about where the people are sharing the wealth, where the police have cracked down on begging, that sort of thing. But manly shooting the breeze was more about how annoying work was, sports, relationships...

At least, that's how I thought it was. I could have been wrong. But, judging by the magazines I'd seen, I doubted it.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Dantali said. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. I just thought... Well. Overland, and you..."

"Its fine," I said, even though I was still annoyed. A little. "Not like I had a big, flashing neon sign over my head saying I like guys or anything."

"No, nothing like that. Um. I don't know how it will affect things. It might mean nothing."

I scowled even more, and folded my arms. "Am I going to start checking out women or something? Because that's a real concern for me."

"You... want to check out women, or you don't?" Dantali asked.

"Don't." I shuddered. "Please don't take this the wrong way? But very much don't. I like liking guys."

"It's really hard not to take that the wrong way."

"Sorry," I offered. "But, it's just... I don't know what it is. Maybe the fact that women can get pregnant?"

I like kids. I also like giving them back at the end of the day. And it had nothing to do with my preferring men over women, sexually. I could admire a beautiful woman, the same way I admired a beautiful car or amazing bit of scenery. Actual sex, though? Lust? That belonged to men. And I couldn't have explained it to myself, let alone anyone else, without sounding like a crazy person trying to explain the color blue, or the sound of one hand clapping.

Dantali patted me on the shoulder, and then pointed towards the other side of the apartment-half of the room. "The bedrooms are that way, down the hall," she said. "Mine's the first door on the left, yours is the first on the right. Bathroom's at the end of the hall." She hesitated, and then added, "There are two more doors- but you don't want to go in there."

"Why not?"

"Previous victims," Dantali said, sounding grim and looking grimmer.

I nodded. Yeah, I didn't want to stay in a dead guy's room. "Hey," I said, and decided to change the subject. "Why do you want to be called Tooth?"

"My name," she said, and smiled. Apparently she was just as grateful for the conversational diversion as I was. "Dantali, dental... And I used to want to be a dentist."

"Used to?" I asked, and then mentally smacked myself in the face.

"Grandma got Alzheimer's, and I decided to study neurology instead." Dantali looked around the half-apartment, half-computer lab with a lost expression.

I made a mental note to remember to call her 'Tooth' from now on, and said goodnight. I don't know if she heard me or not. And then I went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I promise, things DO start picking up, Jack will develop a tiny, inconsequential crush on a certain green-eyed Pooka, and plot moves on.
> 
> ("Jack, what are you _doing_? That's the ninth time you desyncronized in ten minutes!"  
>  "Tried to kiss Aster."  
> "... Overland never did that. You should stop trying."  
> "Hey! I've got my priorities...")


	4. Chapter Four

I woke up the next morning knowing exactly where I was and what had brought me here. I never was the kind to wake up slowly, bits and pieces turning on out of order. At least, I think I've always been like that, but- well, a good habit in the hospital became lifesaving in foster care and on the street, so. Not a gift horse's mouth I was going to check, let's leave it at that.

I did, however, take the chance to look over my new room. I hadn't been awake enough to do that last night; the moment I left the- I don't know, main room?- I just... not enough food, not enough sleep, I was tolerably safe...

These people didn't want me for my body, or at least not in the usual way. I wasn't going to wake up to knives in the dark and men just out of sight discussing how much I would go for. And the bedroom door had a lock, though presumably Dantali- Tooth- and Pitch and who knew how many other people had the keys.

The thing was, it was safe enough to sleep, though I slept lightly, just in case.

Now that I was awake, though, I wanted to get a proper lay of the land, and where better than to start with my own bedroom?

Compared to the main room, it wasn't very big, but that was a bit like saying a Dodge Ram was small next to a construction crane. The bed was a double- too big for one person, not big enough for two unless they were the kind of friendly I'd been avoiding- and there were two wardrobes and one dresser; pants, tops, and socks and underwear.

It was kind of creepy that everything was in my size. I did my best to ignore it.

Even with the wardrobes and dresser and all of that, there was plenty more room. No closet, but that was what the wardrobes were for. There was enough open floor space that, if the floor hadn't been carpet, I'd have felt comfortable practicing some break-dance moves. Break-dance was a good way to get tips, in the summer especially. Down in the subway, or on the edges of one of the parks. If you're good, you can pull in fifty bucks an hour during work hours.

That was it for the room, though. The carpet was the short, bumpy stuff, the color of oatmeal- gray-beige, or whatever the proper name for it was- and the walls were tan. Yellow? Yellow-tan. Something like that. Boring, really. The sheets on the bed- there were no blankets- were a similar enough color to the walls that the slight differences didn't matter. Someone with no imagination had decorated the room, clearly.

I left the bedroom and prowled down the hallway to the bathroom. I eyed both doors that I'd been advised not to go through, but really- no. No interest to see where former victims had slept and possibly died. Besides, if the rooms were anything like mine, there wasn't exactly anything to see anyways.

The bathroom was just as poorly designed and dull as my bedroom. There was a shower, which was big enough for three of me, and all the hot water I could use. I must have spent an hour in there with the taps turned almost blistering hot, and there wasn't so much as a dip in water pressure or temperature. Kind of annoying.

Once I finished with my shower, I got dressed in yesterday's clothes and went back to my room. I checked out the wardrobes and dresser, and creepy as the right sized clothing was, it was kind of nice to wear something that wasn't falling apart. Underwear, socks, jeans that needed a belt to stay up but were otherwise the right length, and a blue hooded sweatshirt only a little bit too big. Clean, warm, and creepy.

Then I headed out to look around the main room.

Dantali- Tooth, I really had to remember that- clearly wasn't up yet. The small kitchen, technically a kitchenette I suppose but it was big enough for a full stove, so kitchen it was, was fully stocked with lots of food. I poured myself a glass of milk, read the carton which proclaimed it was 'free trade whole milk, without artificial preservatives' and other ten-dollar words, and took a sip. It tasted alright, so I took another. Then I got myself a bagel, cut it in half, and stuck it in the toaster. There was cheeze wiz in the fridge, so I pulled that out too.

Then, on my toasted bagel 'made from organically grown wheat' that had probably cost almost ten dollars alone, I put a bunch of completely artificial spready-cheeze that belonged in a tube and probably cost three bucks.

It tasted great.

Dan- _Tooth_ \- stumbled out once I'd put the dishes from my breakfast in the little dishwasher, and got herself yogurt and pre-cubed fruit. Then she turned and began pawing at the coffee machine. I backed away and left her to it.

Instead of getting between a woman and her coffee, I looked around the apartment-half of the room. There wasn't much decoration, not even any cheap pictures on the wall. Instead of tan and tan-yellow, the color scheme seemed to be washed out mint-green and washed out teal. The floor was linoleum patterned to look like tile, and even I could tell it was cheap. There was wallpaper instead of paint, and at some point someone had thrown a mug of coffee at the wall and stained it.

At least, I hoped that brownish, faded mark was coffee stain, instead of, say, old blood.

It was probably blood.

I turned away and studied the furniture. Bland colors, but the couch was comfortable enough and the TV was a big screen. I stared at it, then at the controller, and wondered how to turn it on or what I'd even _watch_. I put the controller back down and checked the door out of the apartment. It was locked.

Then I moved on to the computer lab portion. The Animus thing dominated that half of the room, the size of a hospital bed with all the fiddly bits still attached. A bunch of cables and cords snaked from the head and base of the Animus, writhed across the cheap linoleum tile, and connected to a bunch of computers and what looked like a hospital-grade generator. A bunch of free standing devices turned out to be wireless heart monitors and stuff, things I vaguely remembered from my stint in the hospital.

The rest of the lab seemed to be made up of counters with more, specialized computers doing... I couldn't even hazard a guess. Monitoring something or other. There was one computer that looked just like every desktop computer in every library I'd ever hung out at, but it was password protected. I couldn't even hazard a guess, and my hunt-and-peck typing style made _me_ cringe.

Tooth put the dishwasher on, and schlepped over to me. "Feel up like taking a quick trip through time?" she asked, sounding mostly awake and grumpy about it. "I don't want you staying in there for more than half an hour, so we might as well get it out of the way."

"And what will I do with the rest of my time?" I asked, eyeing the Animus.

"Watch a movie?" she suggested. "Or- well, there's the internet, though everything you post or submit to anything anywhere is vetted and censored and I just don't go on message boards anymore. If you want... Pitch, he'll buy just about anything for you, within reason. I don't know why."

I looked dubiously from the computer, to the TV, back to the Animus. "I suppose," I said, reluctantly. Pity running away screaming wasn't an option, because I really, really wanted to. "Is it going to be as confusing as yesterday?"

"Not necessarily. Previous..." Tooth stopped and cleared her throat. "Previous subjects found some success in concentrating on what they wanted to see when they entered the Animus. Things like, oh, Jackson's first kiss, or first kill."

First _kill_? I did my best to suppress a shudder, but wasn't sure I managed it. If I didn't, Tooth ignored it. Instead, she began flipping switches, pressing buttons, and typing commands into the computers attached to the Animus.

I moved over to the machine, and slowly climbed on. Tooth smiled at me, the expression coming across as sickly instead of, I assumed, reassuring the way she meant it to. "You're going to be just fine," she said.

Considering everything she'd told me yesterday about people going _insane_ because of this thing... I knew she was lying, but I clung to the lie with all my strength. I had to believe I'd be fine. Because otherwise I'd wet myself.

The machine began to hum as it started up. I felt myself start to drift, and- concentrate, huh? Concentrate on what?

The rabbit-thing came to mind, the giant humanoid creature Jackson had thought of as a friend, a brother. How had _that_ started? And _when_?

And-

* * *

Jackson kept his hands clasped behind his back, left inside right, so Father wouldn't see them shake. His left hand hurt, a lot, but Father had said it was necessary. And Mother had sighed, and nodded, and held him while Father took the knife, and Jackson's hand, and cut off his left ring finger.

He knew he had to do it, because Father didn't have _his_ left ring finger, and none of Father's friends did, either. Mother said that was because they were all Assassins, which was something he wasn't supposed to tell anyone. Not even his little sister Grace, yet, because she was young and a girl.

Mother wasn't supposed to know either. Father said that was because Mother worried too much, and Jackson thought that was right. Mother always stayed up late when Father had to go out. Thinking about Mother and her worry, well, Jackson wished he could take those memories away from his Mother, so she didn't worry so much.

And it distracted from the pain in his hand, a little.

"Now remember, Jackson," Father said. "Master Bunnymund might look strange, but he's as human as any of us. He is _not_ a rabbit, and do not call him that."

Jackson nodded. Father had already said all of that, over bandaging Jackson's hand. He supposed Father knew how badly Jackson had been hurting at the time, because he could barely remember what Father had said.

He turned and watched the far end of the vegetable garden, where Father's Master Bunnymund would appear. How? Would he walk up from the woods beyond the garden? Or- or would he drop out of the _sky_?

He did neither of those things. Instead, a hole opened up in the grass, just past the bean plants, and a- a _creature_ jumped out!

No, Jackson reminded himself. Not a creature. A man. Father said so.

The- man- was taller than father by a full head, and looked like someone had taken a gray rabbit and dressed it up in clothes. But, but now that Jackson was looking, he saw how very unlike a rabbit the man was. Master Bunnymund stood comfortably on his hind legs, and his hands had thumbs on them. Rabbits didn't have thumbs. And rabbits didn't have eyes that faced the front, too.

_(What color green is that? Emerald? Shamrock? Scottish Waltz? ...I need to stop it with the paint chips.)_

Jackson's right hand tightened on his left, and he winced despite himself. The man-rabbit frowned at him, and he almost cringed back. No, he couldn't show weakness. Not to Master Bunnymund, who'd decide if Jackson would be an Assassin or not.

If he wasn't, than Father would be so disappointed. Shamed in front of his friends. Jackson couldn't do that to Father, he just couldn't!

So he had to be strong.

The man-rabbit walked forward, around the garden, and then crouched down in front of Jackson. Its- his- legs were better for crouching than a real human's, and it looked like his trousers had been specially cut for that. Jackson looked down at his feet, and waited for judgment to pass.

"'ello there," the man-rabbit said. His accent was strange, a bit like the tailor, Mr. Smith, who was fresh from Britain, and a lot not like that at all. "Mind if I take a gander at that hand of yours?"

Jackson peeked up at the man-rabbit through his hair, and then held his right hand out for inspection. The man-rabbit smiled, and nodded to Jack's left arm.

Well, he'd tried.

He held his left hand out, and winced a little at the bandages wrapped over his missing finger. Over the stump. They were spotted with blood, already. More work for Mother, who'd have to wash them so the blood came out, before they could be used again.

The man-rabbit took Jackson's hand carefully between his two large paws- hands, Jackson corrected himself- and began unwrapping the bandages. Jackson watched carefully, but he couldn't have said when the blood vanished from the white linen. It just _had_.

Jackson stared at the itty bitty stump of his finger, and swallowed down a sudden spate of tears. It hurt, it _did_ , but he couldn't cry. He _wouldn't_. He- he had to be strong and not shame Father and impress the man-rabbit and become an Assassin and-

"Jonathan," the man-rabbit said, and Jackson blinked when he realized that edge to the man-rabbit's voice was _annoyance_. "Why'd you do this?"

Father raised his eyebrows, and then held up his left hand. He made a fist, and then made the twitchy wrist motion that shot the hidden blade out of its holster.

"Ye're a drongo you are," the man-rabbit muttered. "Thought I told you I'd made an advancement in them."

"The blade still-"

"Not anymore."

Jackson didn't understand. Not at first. Not until he saw Father's face twist up into something like horror, as he stared at Jackson's hand. Mother looked sick, and like she might faint.

The man-rabbit huffed, and then reached over and pressed the pads of his fingers under Jackson's chin, with gentle pressure encouraging him to look up. Jackson stared into the man-rabbit's eyes. Such strange eyes; the intelligence in them was all human, but they were big and oddly slanted and had hardly any whites at all, like a horse or mule. The black dots were round, though, like a human's, instead of oval like a horse's.

"This is gonna hurt a touch," it said, and its lips twisted in what was probably a smile. "But you just hang in there a minute or two, I've got'cha covered."

Then the man-rabbit bowed its head over Jackson's hand, and- and its hands started glowing green!

Jackson hissed when his hand started to tingle and ache, and he was pretty sure it hurt worse than losing the finger in the first place- but then he realized his finger stump was getting longer- and ouch! Ouch ouch ouch pain hurt ouch!

Finger joints hurt!

And so did fingernails. Then Jackson's finger stopped growing, and his hand stopped tingling and hurting, and the man-rabbit let go of his hand and ruffled his hair.

"There, see? Just a tic and you're good as new. Give 'em a wiggle."

Jackson nodded, and wiggled his fingers. His- his _new_ finger- was a little stiff, but it was loosening up even as he moved his hand, and- and he had a new finger!

"How did you _do_ that?" he asked, struck breathless.

The man-rabbit- Master Bunnymund, Jackson corrected himself, flushing as he realized how disrespectful he'd been- grinned at him. "Magic," he said, and winked.

_Magic_. Jackson grinned in return, and then looked back down at his hand. _Magic_.

Now he _really_ wanted to be an Assassin.

* * *

Tooth helped me sit up, and looked sympathetic when I groaned and clutched my head.

It wasn't the new memories; or at least, I didn't think so. Watching events through Jackson's eyes had been more like reading a book, or watching a movie. Both, actually, because while I saw everything that was going on, I also got his internal monologue, which didn't typically happen in movies unless there was a voice-over or something. And I'd felt what was going on, but it'd been like sympathy pain. I'd known, in my little kernel of self that was watching everything, that the pain wasn't mine. Even thinking about how weird it'd all felt, I couldn't grasp the words to explain it to myself. I'd just... known.

So no, although the memories had been somewhat overwhelming, that wasn't what made me clutch my forehead.

No, that was the headache.

"It's like any kind of exercise," Tooth said, and rubbed circles between my shoulder blades. "It'll hurt less the more you do this."

"Kill me now," I groaned. "I don' wanna live anymore."

Tooth chuckled- the sound stabbed through my temples and made my eyeballs burst into cold fire, the bitch- and helped me get off the Animus, and stagger to my room. She helped me down onto the bed, turned off the light, and closed the door most of the way.

It left me alone with my pain and my thoughts.

The pain was... there, but thinking didn't set off the fire demons that'd camped out in my brain. And... and I _needed_ to think about what I'd learnt from that short trip.

Starting with... Gah. Those eyes. Those big, brilliantly green eyes. Jackson had barely noticed the color, because he hadn't cared, but me? For some reason, it'd felt like those green eyes had looked through Jackson and seen _me_ , and I wasn't sure I liked that feeling.

It took a few minutes, by I reasoned my way out of the irrational feeling. No way could- what had he been called, Master Bunnymund? Right- no way could Master Bunnymund have seen me, because I hadn't been _there_. I was just watching a kind of recording. So either it was wishful thinking or delusion, and to be perfectly honest it was more likely the second.

The rest of it was... odd. Things that Jackson had taken for granted. Like his mother and sisters. He hadn't dwelt on them, but thoughts, impressions, had leaked over into my brain anyways. His sister- I think she would've been a tomboy, in my time, except I didn't really like the whole 'tomboy' label. As though there was something weird in a girl who liked sports instead of dolls.

Personally? I'd take playing with dolls over playing, say, soccer or football or whatever. I'm scrawny, I break easily. Tea parties are safer.

But Jackson... the idea of his sister putting on breeches- pants- would have been unthinkable. The idea that she might want to do something other than learn how to cook, clean, and do other household chores was unthinkable. To him, woman's work was just that; woman's work. And women liked doing their kind of work as much as a man liked doing his kind, and would be utterly miserable if they had to go outside their area of expertise.

Maybe he was right. There was a saying I'd heard, once, though I couldn't now remember where. "Those born in chains see no issues in slavery" which was clearly wrong, but... When you're raised with something, a mental viewpoint that's imposed upon you from your first breath, something you see everywhere, you don't even have to be told that's the way you have to think. I couldn't help but remember women I'd seen, heading into work. A woman's business suit was a lot different than a man's, for one thing. Men didn't wear skirts, at least not to the office, and they certainly didn't have plunging necklines or earrings or necklaces or anything like that. Really, the older the men got, the more I saw them letting themselves go, while women... women were the ones making the effort to look younger, fitter, better.

I stared up at the ceiling, and wondered about the chains I'd been raised to ignore.

Then I fell asleep mid-thought, and couldn't remember anything I'd decided when I woke up the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to head off any questions- Jackson's POV. The hidden blade is the main weapon of the Assassins in Assassin's Creed. It's a spring-loaded blade that straps to the wrist, and when it pops out, suddenly you've got a (I'm guessing at length, here) six inch knife to stab people with. However, in the first game, the hidden blade would turn the ring finger into a mess if it wasn't cut off... well, it'd BE cut off, just... not cleanly or safely, you know?
> 
> Which is why Jackson's father cut off Jackson's ring finger- in anticipation of the hidden blade. However, changes mean that's no longer necessary, ergo Bunny gets to be Super-Healer Rabbit-Man and save the day. Huzzah!


	5. Chapter Five

Tooth and I settled into something of a routine after that. It was her suggestion that had me thinking about Jackson's training as an Assassin, starting officially when he was fourteen and moving on from there, to ease me into things.

By the end of the week, I could manage perhaps an hour at a time in the Animus. So I'd eat breakfast, take an hour as early in the morning as I could, lie down until the headache passed, and then emerge from my room like a bear from its winter hibernation.

In other words, I was cranky, starving, and feeling like I wanted to kill something if I could only gather the energy to do so. Tooth wisely kept out of my way until the worst of the mood passed.

Generally, by then, it was mid-afternoon.

"It's pointless to ask you to go into the Animus twice in one day," Tooth told me, when I asked why Pitch wasn't ragging on her to hurry-hurry-hurry. "He hasn't told us what we're looking for. He hasn't given us a timeline. And I'm not going to put any greater stresses on your health with no need."

Well, that was a point.

For lack of anything else to do, I started watching television. I quickly discovered that watching sports, as appealing as it'd sounded in my brain when I'd been watching everyone else go home, wasn't quite as much fun as I'd thought. I just didn't see the point. Maybe if I'd actually been _in_ the crowd, cheering on the players, or one of the hockey-soccer-football-curling players, it would've been more fun. As it was... well, it didn't feel right, watching while curled up on the obscenely comfortable couch.

When I said as much to Tooth, she burst out laughing and didn't stop for fifteen minutes.

I'd timed her.

Tooth introduced me into more 'educational' channels after that. Discovery, History, National Geographic, a couple different news stations... She showed me how to work the digital recorder, which would tape shows so I didn't have to watch as they were happening. I could then watch the recordings later, and fast forward through commercials.

By the end of the week, I felt confident enough to make a list of subjects I wanted books in. Tooth raised her eyebrows at the list, but agreed to pass it on.

By Monday, I had a stack of books, covering subjects that ranged from both world wars, from as many different perspectives as could be managed, to religion, to geology- although the geology book was more a 'coffee table' display with pretty pictures than anything.

It wasn't what I'd read in the various libraries where I'd hid out from the weather. Then, I'd read more to distract myself from reality. Occasionally I'd managed to borrow a school textbook someone had forgotten. This, though, this was all stuff I was reading to _learn_.

Because Jackson had been educated. Compared to now, he wouldn't have had a basic GED, but for the time he'd been living in? Three languages, and that wasn't counting the English and Welsh he'd grown up with. He couldn't read anything but English, but at the time most people didn't even have that much. He'd been able to do basic geometry, some algebra, and his ability to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, all in his head, made me feel ashamed of myself. I didn't know much more than my five times tables.

Of course, Jackson hadn't known anything of history, beyond what little he got told about- about what was called the "Assassin and Templar conflict". Apparently the Assassins were fighting some group called the Templars. The Assassins were billed as the good guys, of course.

Mind, the Templars probably considered they were the good guys. Everyone is the hero in their own story.

Jackson also hadn't known much of, I guess, 'real world' things. Nothing about finance, except from what little he'd seen from his neighbors. If he had to chop down a tree or thatch a roof, he'd have been helpless. Everything he learnt was geared towards the life of an Assassin, with a grounding in sheep herding so he'd have a 'cover' life.

Even so, watching through Jackson's eyes as he learnt, I felt some long-dormant part of me begin to stir. Learning had once been fun; I knew that now even if I couldn't _remember_. It was starting to be fun again.

Thus, the books.

Another week passed, much the same way. Wake up, spend time in the Animus, recover, and then spend my afternoon watching TV and reading my books during the commercials. Tooth gave me another medical exam, said I'd gained five pounds in one week, and began monitoring my diet.

I made a request for exercise equipment- the bow-flex weight machine and treadmill thing I'd seen commercials for.

"Why?" Tooth asked me.

"Because jogging in place is boring, and I've never been this inactive before. I want to put on weight, trust me, but when I do, I want it to be muscle."

She nodded. "Fair enough, but it will be under strict supervision." Still, she put in the request, and the equipment arrived two days later.

Pumping weights and running on the fancy treadmill gave me time to think, even if I was watching one of my shows at the same time. I did my best not to think about how I was a prisoner and could be killed at any moment, or go crazy, or...

I ended up thinking about Jackson instead.

And Bunnymund.

* * *

Master Bunnymund was watching. Jackson didn't let himself look over at the shadows more than once or twice. This was one of the exams, a big one, and he couldn't afford to fail. He needed to be top of his class, both for his father's pride and his own.

And, too, to impress Master Bunnymund. Jackson could still remember that gentle touch against his maimed hand, and how Master Bunnymund had used _magic_ to regrow Jackson's finger. Jackson wanted to prove himself worthy of that effort. He wanted to impress Master Bunnymund, too.

Everyone spoke of Master Bunnymund with awe. He was a master, the teachers said. The teachers were all amazing at what they could do, even when age had robbed them of most of their flexibility and strength. Master Dwight, who was almost seventy, could still thrash students a quarter of his age, and when they were in groups, too.

But he, or so Master Dwight claimed, was a lowly apprentice when compared to Master Bunnymund. There wasn't a method of fighting that Master Bunnymund hadn't perfected, not a single skill that came to Master Bunnymund with anything but ease. He knew everything, it seemed, that could be known about the natural world.

Jackson stared at the obstacle course in front of him, and set his jaw. He would have the best time, make the fewest mistakes, and he would make his father proud.

And he would catch Master Bunnymund's eye. That, too, would make his father proud.

"Begin!"

Jackson took off running. Speed was important, but so was stealth. The instant they began the course, the students had to take advantage of every bit of cover they could find.

The arrows were blunted, but would still hurt.

He still didn't know what he thought about being _shot at_ , but at least practice wasn't lethal.

Jackson ducked down into a shallow ravine, and scuttled along almost on all fours, like some kind of animal. Thin, whippy branches threatened his eyes and clawed at his clothing, but he ignored it all. Just narrowed his eyes, hunched his shoulders, and kept on towards his goal.

The flag, the 'kill', and success.

From the ravine to the 'woods', and from there to the 'village'. Jackson ducked around buildings and climbed over the roofs, feet and hands slipping against the thatch and tile. The other students were right with him, and they moved in a kind of pack.

Arrows came at them from all directions. Jackson knew that they weren't being aimed to kill, but there was a reflexive flinch in his gut every time one of the wooden shafts shot by his face. He clenched his teeth, and concentrated on moving steadily forward, side to side and as fast as he dared, to make it harder for people to aim at him.

A line of burning fire traced over one thigh.

Jackson swallowed down his yelp, bounced up and over a wagon with an entirely too showy flip- points lost, points lost- and then hit the ground hard, balls of his feet first.

Jackson's toes dug into the loose dirt.

And then he _flew_.

Faster and faster he ran. Fast enough his legs burned, ankles and calves and knees and thighs and hips and a stitch in his side and red heat in his chest because he couldn't get enough _air_.

A slight rise, little more than a mound of dirt and a few good sized rocks. The flag at the top, red like the blood they would eventually spill.

Jackson snatched up the flag, and then tumbled down the other side of the hill, tumbling and turning so fast he never saw the tree until he'd whacked his forehead against it.

And by that point, he was falling unconscious, so it didn't matter.

Just the tree, and the amused green eyes staring down at him.

* * *

"Jack?" Tooth waved one hand in front of my face. "Jack, it's been an hour. That's enough."

I winced, and stopped the machine. Part of me wanted to keep going. Part of me was glad to stop. Part of me was also rather desperate for a shower- I was sweating heavily enough that my thin shirt stuck to every non-existent muscle in my torso- and another part wanted nothing more than to collapse to the floor in exhaustion.

Tooth smiled, as though she knew just what I was thinking, and helped me down onto solid ground. "Drink this," she said, and gave me a glass of water, room temperature. "Sip it slowly, walk back and forth."

I mouthed the words along with her, and barely dodged her playful smack. "Right, right," I said, and sipped the water. It tasted like finest ambrosia, not that I'd ever had any.

My legs trembled and threatened to give out on me, but I managed to stay upright. Tooth had me too three laps of the room, and drink two glasses of water, before she decided that was enough.

"Go shower," she said, not unkindly. "You smell."

I moved over to the hallway, but stopped. "Tooth?"

"Yes, Jack?"

Drops of sweat rolled down the sides of my face. My hair, drying now, itched. Or maybe that was my scalp, though it felt like my actual _hair_ was itchy.

"How'd he catch you?"

Tooth moved over to the large windows, and stared out over the New York skyline. "I'd rather not..."

"Please."

She looked so sad, standing there. So alone. Remote, and, in a way, hopeless.

"My sister," she whispered. "He has my sister."

In the end, I had to turn away from her grief.

I spent a long time in the shower after that, letting the pouring water do the crying for me.

Sister. Sister. The word made something painful clench tight in my chest.

I rather feared it was my heart.

* * *

I dreamt that night. What was odd was how... lucid the dream seemed to be. Well, that, and remembering it afterwards.

I was Jackson, and I was me, and I held the hand of a young girl who was and wasn't Jackson's little sister. Her hair was brown, and the pale, wispy blond of young children, and her eyes were brown and gray and her nose was a little pug noise and a beak that would've done an eagle proud, and I loved her, loved her, loved her, to my bones and my blood and my soul.

Mine. My sister. My little sister.

_(And names chased through my mind, Mary and Rosemary and a tumbling whirl of emotion. The name didn't matter. The feelings did.)_

My sister who isn't my sister but is, and I, are on a lake. Ice skating, except we're not moving.

"You wanna play a game?" I ask. "We're going to play hopscotch! Like we play every day!"

My sister smiles at me, and skates a quick circle around me.

"It's as easy," I say, "as one... whoa!" The ice is slippery, slippery, and I nearly crash to the frozen surface. Around me, chips of ice fly up, the way they do in dreams. Snow in reverse.

My sister laughs, and screams, and collapses to her knees.

"Two," I say, and move a step closer to an old, brown stick. She screams again, and red covers the ice in a puddle around her. Her white pants, white apron, whatever it is she's wearing, become stained.

Red like blood. Like a flag, symbol of something to come.

"Three!"

I turn, and hold my hands out. More ice flies up, and the chips are sharp enough to draw blood and cut through my thin clothing. I don't feel the cold.

"Alright." I pick up the stick, and it ices over when my fingers touch it. There's a long spike, like the head of a spear, at one end, and the odd curve on the other end, like a shepherd's crook, is edged in ice sharp enough to cut through flesh.

It cuts through mine.

"Now it's your turn," I say, and point the staff at her. At my sister, covered in blood and laughing and looking terrified as the ice cracks beneath her feet.

I count for her, one step, two steps, three- and then.

Ice shatters, and a woman cackles- genuinely cackles- and I fall down, down into the dark water, the cold stabbing through me like knives and above there's a horrific cracking sound.

I woke up the next morning choking on my screams and tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, dream with a hint of stuff that happened and will happened and might happen eventually. -smiles- The plot is taking off, my pretties, with bat wings and monkey screams.


	6. Chapter 6

"God curse you, one and all," I swore, teeth bared in frustration. "May the _pox_ take up residence in your circuitry and may _weevils_... get into... _argh_!"

The microwave door finally opened, almost bashing me in the nose it was so sudden. I jerked back, slipped on the slick tile floor- an accident with the jar of pickles earlier had required a mop and some water- and fell.

I tumbled instinctively, rolling backwards and up onto my feet, swearing continuously as I did.

Stupid, goddamn electronics and twist-top lids.

"Jack?"

I stopped yelling at the microwave, took a deep breath, and then turned to face Tooth. "Yeah?" I asked, trying desperately for calm.

"What was that?" She moved over to the coffee maker, poured herself a mug, and took a sip. I looked away at her wince. Probably should've mentioned I'd also managed to break the salt shaker over the coffee maker, but... well. Whoops.

"Huh?" I picked up my plate of chips and shredded nachos, and put them in the microwave. After a few seconds, I even remembered how to turn it on, and program the timer. And then it just sat there. Mocking me. Doing nothing.

"Start button," Tooth reminded me.

Oh, right. "Don't judge me. I can't remember using these things before coming here."

"Uh huh."

"No, really, I can't."

Tooth poured the pot of coffee out into the sink, and got started with a new one. I did my best to ignore both the arcane motions as well as the scent of freshly ground beans. My nose didn't like that scent.

Truth be told, my nose didn't like a lot of scents, now. And my tongue had developed a thing about taste. I was starting to figure out just why so much of the food provided for us was the super-organic chemical free stuff. It wasn't because Pitch was health conscious- probably he wouldn't have cared if I survived on a diet of cheese doodles and pop, so long as I did what he wanted- but because preservatives and stuff hadn't been around in Overland's time.

It was an odd thought. The more so every time it came to mind, really.

I was starting to feel two different impressions about things; my own, and Overland's. My ancestor would've thought computers and televisions and microwaves and stuff to be demonic, or holy devices, or something. Even with as educated as he was compared with just about everyone else in his time. Me? I was perfectly fine with using a demon-box so long as it did what I wanted. Considering how unskilled I was with technology, well...

"When you were swearing, you weren't speaking English. I don't think." Tooth sounded amused, but then, her coffee was brewing. Or perking. Or _something_.

I shrugged one shoulder. "Sounded like English to me." The microwave buzzed. I checked on my nachos- although, without any proper toppings but the cheese, did they count as nachos? Something to think about- and then put them back on for another thirty seconds.

"Well, believe me, it wasn't," she assured me. She poured herself a new mug of coffee just as my nachos finished. We both sat down at the kitchen table, eating and drinking in companionable silence.

I was pretty sure a month had passed at this point. Maybe more. My sense of time was having... issues. Oh, sure, the windows ensured I could see the sun rising and falling, and there were clocks and calendars galore, but... Well, for one thing it wasn't like I was sure exactly when I'd been dragged in here. For another, I'd progressed to the point where I was speeding through my ancestor's memories. Overland had done quite a bit that, honestly, didn't interest me... like lambing. Yeah.

Fast forwarding while in the Animus was a bit weird. It was two parts imagining time passing along really fast, two parts lucid dream control... type... thing... and one part imagining myself watching a movie and pressing buttons on the remote. If something looked interesting, I slowed everything down and got immersed all over again.

I was resolutely not thinking about how I always slowed down to... experience... Overland's thoughts and observations of Master Bunnymund.

It wasn't like it was weird or anything! It wasn't!

And I absolutely wasn't thinking about it!

Overland was... something like nineteen or twenty now in the memories, and a full Assassin. Although he hadn't killed anyone yet. No, the missions he was sent on involved observation more, occasionally stealing things. Pennsylvania was in a bit of minor upheaval, something that- according to the history books- promised it'd get worse. A bit weird to live through something I was also reading about, but at least I wasn't going to be too surprised at the way things turned out.

I wondered when I'd reach that first memory I'd seen, where he and Master Bunnymund had been... doing something about security? Although I was starting to think it'd been an amalgamation of a lot of different memories, all mixed together. There was a difference between what I was seeing now, and what I'd seen then.

Tooth was still sipping at her coffee by the time I was finished my lunch. I loaded the small dishwasher, and considered putting it on. It was mostly full now, not exactly a difficult task, but there was room enough still for Tooth's mug.

"Going to have a second cup?" I asked, and turned around.

And promptly froze.

The door to the outside world, to the hallway, was open.

And Pitch Black was standing right there, staring at me.

* * *

"Jackson! Jackson, wait!" Emma ran as fast as she could, petticoats and skirts tangling about her legs. Jackson paused at the trailhead to wait for her. "Jackson, where are you going?"

"Just out to see where to run the trap line this autumn," he promised. "No further than the lake. Shouldn't you be helping Ma with the chores, Emma?"

She pouted, and folded her arms. "I'm not letting you chase me off that easy! You're always doing this! The other girls say that you- that you're meeting a lover!"

A- a lover? Jackson blushed, realized he was blushing, and blushed harder. "No, Emma, no! I- there's no- I mean, no, it's just... not that."

"Then what is it?" she asked. "You and Papa and Ma are always keeping secrets and it's not fair!"

No, telling his sister about the Assassins would be wrong. "It's..." Jackson sighed, and waved at a nearby fallen log, one that had clearly been used as a seat many times before. He sat down on it, secure and ready to leap to his feet at a hint of a threat, while Emma perched as best she could, tense and trying to hide her worry.

"I'm not going to meet a lover, and I'm not... I'm not running off to tend to an illegal still or anything like that." He grinned, and she grinned back. Old Mister Hobson had been running a still three years back. Only reason it'd been illegal had been because drinking it had made people sick, not drunk. Still, it was fun to joke about all stills as being illegal, now.

"Then why are you going?"

"Part of its hunting for stuff," he admitted. "Part of its meeting up with some boys from a few other villages. We- we wrestle and joke and just have fun, y'know?"

Well, that was _one_ way to put it, he supposed. He and the other young Assassins pitted their skills against each other quite frequently, and he, at least, tended to leave such bouts with developing bruises on nearly every part of his body that would normally be covered in clothing.

"Jackson," Emma said, and then stopped. She made an odd face. "Jackson, they're not... none of you are..."

"Spit it out, Em. I don't have all day to plan my trap line," he said. It was rather amusing how she fumbled for words.

"You're not practicing sodomy, are you?" she blurted, and then turned so deep a red he was momentarily worried she was bleeding all over her face.

And then what she'd asked sunk in.

"No!" He jumped to his feet, eyes all but bugging out of his head. "No, no, no! I swear, Emma, a thousand times no!" He rubbed his hands over his face. "Emma!"

"Well, you're always vanishing, and you said it was to meet these boys! And you're not married yet!"

"That's because we're related to most of the village, Em! I'm not marrying a cousin, I'm quite simply not! Father's already agreed I'll be traveling to the big city to spend time with Uncle Jerome, learn some trading... And I'll meet a girl there, I'm sure." Jackson groaned, and sat back down. "Where'd you even hear that word, anyways?"

"Father Preston caught Harlan and Whitney fumbling about behind the smithy," she admitted. "I could hear him yelling from the village well."

Jackson shook his head. Clearly, he needed to find a way to spend more time at home. He didn't even remember who those two boys were.

"Ah, they'll grow up some and get interested in girls, act like proper men instead of... Well, don't you go using that word, or Ma'll wash your mouth out with soap, and Father will tan your hide, girl or no!"

Emma grinned at him. "I won't." She frowned again. "Why do you meet the boys in the woods?"

"Well... we're trying to learn fighting."

"But we're supposed to be at peace with the natives," she protested.

"We are, but... Well, there's been rumors in some villages, and there's no harm in a bit of wrestling. B'sides, there's not much anyone in village I can be friends with. Everyone's either too young or too old, Emma. It's nice spending time with men my own age."

"Men," his sister snorted. "Way you carry on, Jackson, you're still a boy! I hope you meet yourself a nice girl soon, who'll straighten you out and have you acting like an adult!"

Jackson grinned, and ruffled her hair. "Where's the fun in that?" he asked. "Now hurry home. Ma's surely wondering where you've gone off to."

He kept an eye on her until she'd vanished, hidden from view by tree trunks and the thick underbrush. Only then did he stand up again and head down the path to the lake.

He hadn't lied, exactly, when he'd told his sister he was going to check places to run a trap line. It was just... Oh, he enjoyed people, loved testing his skills against the other Assassins, and quite liked the way the senior Assassins treated him as well; as someone untried, but full of promise. And he liked being home, with Ma's cooking and Father's quiet pride and the villagers asking him about how it'd been out with the sheep.

But really, sometimes he just wanted to be by himself. And the lake was a good place to be alone. It was far enough from the village that no one really used it as a source of water. During the warmest summer months young boys would occasionally go swimming, but being farmers were generally working too hard to find much time away. It meant he had the entire area to himself.

He was young, strong, and healthy, and made good time. Along the way he mentally marked where the local rabbit trails seemed to be, although that would become more and more obvious as summer slid into autumn.

Jackson paused on the shore of the lake. It was small, as such bodies of water went. The cave that led to the Assassins' training grounds was on the far bank, in the side of the tall hill, with a tumble of rocks on the side that touched the water's edge.

He still wasn't quite sure how passing through a cave would lead him to a new area, but that was how he traveled from his home to the Assassins' training ground. There was a lake there, too, where everyone was drilled in swimming, even some boating. This lake was much smaller, without even a local name, and the shore edge was an almost harsh line, where the soil dropped a good five feet or so down into the water.

It was just familiar enough to the training grounds for him to relax, but not so familiar that he was on edge waiting for a teacher to see him doing nothing and yell at him.

Everything was quiet. The local animals had been hunted enough to be wary of another human in their domain, though Jackson was somewhat uneasy at ascribing human emotions to wild beasts. Still, all but the bravest songbirds and a few insects had fallen silent.

And... Something scratching at wood?

Jackson half-turned, and tilted his head. It sounded like one of the herding dogs scratching at the door, or maybe a fence post. But this far out into the woods there shouldn't _be_ any dogs.

He felt for his hidden knives, one to each wrist, and then began to track the sound, moving as silently as he knew how. As with all his other lessons, he'd received top marks, although he felt he was still only... adequate.

Master Bunnymund was quieter.

Jackson ghosted through the woods, until he found the source of the sound. The fox, quite obviously a nursing female, clawed desperately at a large branch that had fallen across a hole in the ground. Jackson studied the situation, taking in the individual details and deciding on the events that must have transpired to lead to this.

Clearly the hole in the ground was the vixen's den. Now that he was close, he could hear weak whimpers and squeaks, fox kits, calling for their mother. The opening of the den was blocked by a tree branch that must have fallen from... He looked up, and squinted at a tree that looked charred, obviously lightning-struck. Bad luck the weakened wood had given way today.

He almost turned away. It was a pity about the fox kits, that they'd starve and die without their mother, but not that important.

Jackson even made it two steps away, now being quiet out of habit instead of focus.

But...

The vixen's front paws were beginning to bleed. The charred wood was too hard for her to break through, for some reason, the branch too heavy for her to drag away. Perdition alone knew it was probably too heavy for _Jackson_ to move, too.

The brute beast's suffering bothered him, for some reason. Jackson moved back to where he'd first caught sight of the scene, and then forward.

"Move," he growled at the fox. Wary, it retreated; fear of humans briefly overcoming it's protective, mothering instincts. Jackson kept part of his attention on the fox. If it attacked him, well, it wasn't very big as canines went, but it could certainly hurt him.

The branch broke into several pieces once he figured out where to stomp down on it. Those pieces were small enough to haul away, and the moment the den opening was cleared, the vixen vanished down into the hole.

"You're welcome," Jackson said, amused. Well, this was one way to find out where the foxes were in the area. Would it be worth setting out snares for foxes? Their coats could fetch a pretty penny, and if he didn't they'd be raiding his trap line all winter, but... after saving this little group, it felt somewhat... wrong.

"Right good turn you did 'er, mate."

Jackson spun around, a throwing knife seeming to appear in one hand. And then he froze, every muscle suddenly so tense it hurt. "Master Bunnymund!"

The oddly-shaped man grinned at him from the shadows, and spun an odd-looking wooden weapon around in one hand. "That I am, Jackson Overland."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, things happen! -grin- Yeah, Jack's going to despise modern technology, but to be fair, that has nothing to do with Jackson's memories. Technology just hates some people, it's amusing. (The swearing, though, is totally Jackson's memories.)
> 
> And yes, for the record, three hundred years ago English didn't sound like it does now. Three hundred years in the future, it'll sound different. (Just compare the different slang from the sixties, or the twenties, to now. Gay used to mean happy, and fag used to mean a cigarette.)


	7. Chapter Seven

"Master Bunnymund, what are you doing here?"

The man-rabbit looked amused, and put the odd weapon away. "What, I can't go a-walking in a neighbor's forest?"

"Well no, I mean yes, I mean-" Jackson trailed off in confusion, and sighed. "I mean, why _would_ you?"

Master Bunnymund chuckled. "Well, sometimes it's nice to see where my folk are living."

Fair enough. Jackson nodded, and made his way back to the lakeshore. Halfway there, he realized the head of the Assassins was following, moving so silently he seemed a ghost. Jackson actually jumped when he caught sight of Master Bunnymund from the corner of his eye.

When they reached the lakeshore, Jackson honestly expected Master Bunnymund to head for the cave and leave, but he didn't. Instead, he settled down beside Jackson looking over the water, and pulled out a chunk of wood and small knife. He was carving, the young man realized. And- well, Jackson wasn't watching, exactly, but what little he saw showed considerable talent.

"Bet you're wondering why us Assassins are here," Master Bunnymund said, after several minutes of silence.

Jackson about jumped out of his skin again. After a moment, he shook his head. "Not really," he admitted. "My father's always said our work's needful, and that's enough for me."

"Is it?" Master Bunnymund asked, tone mild. He sliced a tiny sliver of wood off his work, and studied the cut critically.

Of course it was.

Only... Jackson looked away, out over the water. "Well," he said, considering every word before he said it. Some things you had to be careful about saying. "Not really. The Templars, what they want. It's not right. And someone has to stand up against them. That's us."

Master Bunnymund grunted agreement, or maybe it was just criticism of his carving. "I suppose," he said.

" _You_ suppose?" Jackson turned to look at Master Bunnymund in surprise. The sun was warm on Master Bunnymund's gray fur, but he was so still that he looked like a statue. _(Well, that's very pretty, actually...)_ Only then an ear twitched, ruining the illusion.

"That's what it is, at the heart of things. Standing up against what's wrong." Master Bunnymund looked up, then, and his gaze pinned Jackson in place. "Evil, you might say."

Evil? Jackson swallowed. "Like... Lucifer?" he whispered, and looked around, just in case.

"Who?" Master Bunnymund asked. "Oh, him. No. Well..." He coughed, and set down the knife. "Jackson, you know people tell... stories, to try and understand things?"

Jackson frowned. "The Bible's not a story," he snapped. "It's truth!" How had his father failed to mention Master Bunnymund was a _heathen_?

"Well, yeah." Master Bunnymund shrugged a shoulder. "And there was a war. But things... echo. As above, so below."

Jackson shook his head, confused. "I don't understand," he said.

"If ya haven't figured out by now that I'm not human," Master Bunnymund said.

"It's fairly obvious." Jackson pursed his lips, and dared a bit of teasing. "The ears," he said. "I wasn't sure until I saw the ears."

Master Bunnymund gave him a dark look. "Right. Well, I'm not. And Sandy- you haven't met him yet, he's... well. He came here with me."

He nodded, and then paused. 'Came here'? And not human... "You're not telling me you're an angel," Jackson said. "Because... no. Just... no."

The man-rabbit stared at him, and then howled with laughter. "No," he said, once he'd gotten control over himself. "No. I'm not. I... h'oooh boy. No." He paused to chuckle, pressed one hand over his mouth, and then started laughing again.

_(That's a nice laugh...)_

Jackson huffed, and folded his arms. "It's not that funny," he snapped. One corner of his mouth twitched, despite himself, and he fought down the smile. No need to encourage the old man.

Master Bunnymund made a sound that, charitably, could be called a giggle. The smile won, despite Jackson's attempts at control. "Sorry about that," Master Bunnymund said, not sounding sorry at all. "It was just the thought of Sandy..." He paused, hand clamped over his mouth again, eyes dancing. "Well. Ah, no, not... but a similar idea. Someone quite..." Master Bunnymund sobered, and stared out over the water.

"Earth wasn't the only place there was life," he murmured. "Once... Ah, Jackson, you should've seen it. We called in the Golden Age. Out there..." He waved upwards at the sky. "We had our own world. Peaceful, it was. And one of the heroes of the age was Kozmotis Pitchner." He sighed.

Jackson shifted uncomfortably. "You don't have to tell me."

"I make it a point to tell every promising young recruit. You're going to need to know it, some day."

It seemed like Master Bunnymund was looking right through him, deep into his soul. Jackson bit his bottom lip, and nodded. "Alright."

Master Bunnymund nodded in reply, and looked back out over the water. "I was young, then, just learning how to fight proper. There were these critters, guess you'd call 'em demons, that the army fought. Kozmotis Pitchner was the one to lead the army, and the Fearlings, what we called 'em, got rounded up and put in a prison. He volunteered to guard the prison, and how could it go wrong? He was the Golden General."

Jackson hesitated, and then reached over to rest one hand on Master Bunnymund's shoulder. "He turned?"

"Yeah. Became the bloke now known as Pitch Black." Master Bunnymund turned and stared at Jackson. "Leader of the Templars."

Jackson felt a chill race down his spine. "He's... like you?"

"No!"

Jackson about fell onto the ground, he recoiled so quickly and violently. Master Bunnymund looked sheepish. "Sorry 'bout that. No. No, Pitch, he's... he looks human. More or less." He sighed. "Sit up, would you? I won't bite."

Jackson nodded, and did. "So, then...?"

"He killed everyone." Master Bunnymund clenched his jaw, until a muscle jumped in the corner. "Me and Sandy... And one other bloke, but he's not here. We're it. Then he came here. My people... well, long story short, he's after a bunch of artifacts you English speaking humans call 'the Apples of Eden', which... isn't accurate, they're not apples, but..." He shrugged one shoulder.

Jackson's jaw dropped. "Apples of Eden?" he asked. " _The_ Apples?"

Master Bunnymund snorted. "Like I said," he muttered. "Pitch is after them. I've got most, but a couple are still missing. He also wants my severed head on a pike," he mused. "Not that inclined to indulge him that one."

The young man nodded agreement. "No," he said. "I wouldn't be either. Master Bunnymund?"

"Mm?"

"Why would you tell _me_ this, though?" he asked. "I'm sure you've told others something a lot simpler than this."

"Well," Master Bunnymund said, and hesitated. "Well. The thing is, you see... I think you've got promise."

"Promise?"

"To reach the top ranks. The group that'll go toe to toe with the Templars directly, instead of just dealing with their catspaws and soldiers." Master Bunnymund looked away. "Everyone on that level knows the full story."

Master Bunnymund thought he, Jackson Overland, had that much promise? Jackson felt his cheeks heating in a blush. "I won't disappoint you," he murmured.

"Yeah, I reckon you won't." Master Bunnymund patted Jackson's shoulder, and stood up. "I'd best get back. Hurry home before that sister of yours gets worried."

"Yes sir." Jackson stood up, and watched as Master Bunnymund headed for the cave on the other side of the lake. Then he turned for home, and walked slowly up the path.

He had a lot to think about.

* * *

The top of the Animus swung up and away. I stayed where I was for a minute, though, until my stomach had settled.

_"Yeah. Became the bloke now known as Pitch Black." Master Bunnymund turned and stared at Jackson. "Leader of the Templars."_

Crap. Crap, crap, double crap, and triple crap. Also, shit.

Not a coincidence. Not at all. I knew that, I knew it in my bones, the names were _not_ a coincidence.

I sat up, and turned to look at my captor. "Pitch Black," I said, and his eyes narrowed. Something in my expression? My tone? The way I said his name? "Did you give up the Templars, or what?"

The asshole hit me again.

The world stopped spinning, and I figured out where I was. Not sitting on the Animus bed anymore, but crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the wall. Again. I rubbed my aching jaw, and glared at him. "You need a new method of communication," I mumbled.

Pitch glared at me. "Your attempts at levity are not appreciated," he snarled. "What did you see?"

"Jackson's life?" I shrugged, and sat up properly. Holy crap my head hurt. "You haven't exactly told me what to look for!"

"You will know it," Pitch said, "when you see it."

I bit back a comment about how anytime someone used those words, drivers ended up lost the country over. Then I bit back another comment about volunteering information to a crazy person who was sure to kill me when this little adventure was over.

Damn, I'd almost forgotten that. He was going to kill me, whatever polite fiction we'd agreed on. I'd let myself be swayed by three square meals, all the hot water I could wish for, and a soft bed to sleep in. I made a mental note not to forget again.

I had to get out of here.

"Yeah, well, I didn't see it." I'd learned a lot, and I was going to have to think about that, but... "So, sorry, but my Animus time is up for the day. Unless you want my brains leaking out my ears, that is, but it'll be hard to get info from a vegetable."

Pitch glared at me, and then left.

He didn't use the door, either. He used the shadows.

I stared at the spot where he'd been standing, then looked up at Tooth. She looked just as shocked as I felt. That was something, at least.

"For some reason," I said, and gestured at the now-empty spot. "That just makes me want to break his face. With a baseball bat."

Tooth blinked at me, and then managed a small smile. "Let me take a look at that bruise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I've been having something of a problem with short chapters. I'm sorry! However, Corgi's been helping me flesh out the chapters, so... fingers crossed I start posting LONGER ones... I'm starting to think this story might be mostly Jackson, which is... odd, for me. He's not Jack. Looks like it, but... not Jack.


	8. Chapter Eight

Thoughts of escape consumed my mind. No matter what else I was doing, I was thinking on it. Turning the idea over and over, trying to figure out the angles, the best method.

I couldn't just walk out. Sure couldn't fight my way out. Last time I'd thrown a proper punch, I'd broken my own thumb. Sure, I was getting the theory thanks to Jackson's memories, but theory wasn't going to give me muscle memory and the physical strength and stamina required.

Discounting, of course, that Pitch was a freaky shadow-walking guy who probably armed all his soldiers with semi-automatic guns. I doubted even Jackson's Master Bunnymund could've avoided all those bullets. Especially in a contained space like hallways.

There had to be a way. Just had to. I even picked up one of our chairs and threw it at the big window, but the chair broke first. Tooth put the damage down to a temper tantrum, but I could tell she knew the real reason. I didn't like the look in her eye, when she told the cleaning crew- a crew where the smallest guy had biceps bigger than my head- the reason. It was a mix of despair and resignation. She was trapped, she knew it, she knew I was trying to come up with a way to escape and...

And she wouldn't take the chance to escape even if it was there, would she? She'd mentioned a sister.

When I wasn't in the Animus, or recovering from reliving memories, I prowled the apartment. I even went into the two bedrooms that had been used by previous subjects. Completely empty, without even carpet on the floor. The revealed cement had odd stains Jackson's memories told me were blood.

I considered everything from setting the building on fire (which would lead to an escape of only one kind- death) or sneaking out. Finding some way to break the windows and climbing down the side of the building. Flat out killing Pitch, somehow, without weapons or fighting ability, when he next showed up.

In all honesty, it took an absurdly long time before I figured out one method I hadn't considered, let alone tried. And it was Jackson's memories that helped me twig on.

* * *

The Teatro San Cassiano was a wonder, a marvel, and made Jackson want to gouge his eyes out with a _stick_. So much glitter! So much gilt! So many fancy carvings! Everything was rich; from the tapestries, which were real velvet, dyed a bright red, to the gold, to the semi-precious stones embedded in the plaster- overwhelming was the only polite word for it.

"I know, son," Assassin Alfonzo said. The Italian had been born to a brick maker, but his family had been destroyed by the Templars. He'd made quite a name for himself in this part of Italy, though age had slowed him to the point where he was only good for these kinds of missions; eavesdropping, primarily. Very few kills.

Not that Jackson minded. He was no stranger to death, but he wasn't sure he was quite ready to start claiming _human_ lives.

This, though? Sneaking through shadows and listening in on Templar agents as they discussed their plans? This suited him just fine.

"Who is it we will be listening on?" Jack asked, his Italian sounding stilted to his own ears. "I know what they will discuss," he added, at Alfonzo's doubtful look. "And I remember we are going to listen in on Liborio Dinapoli. But I do not know who that man _is_."

Alfonzo went from doubtful to amused. "You will know him, because he has the most atrocious fashion sense in the city. And your Italian is good, but work on your accent. You sound like a country boy."

"I am a country boy," Jackson muttered.

The senior Assassin went on as if he hadn't heard anything. "Dinapoli, he is gaudy," he said, and sniffed. "As much gold braid as can be fit on his clothing, velvets even in summer, expensive silks that he sweats through and ruins in a single night." He sniffed again. "And the hats! The hats are the worst. Surely half a dozen roosters have lost their tails just for a single one of those hats!"

Jackson grinned, and looked over the crowd with that description. To his eye, most of the people were 'gaudy' with foolish hats, but as he'd said, he was just a country boy. It finally took Alfonzo pointing the man out before he understood what he'd meant. Liborio Dinapoli was a round little ball of a man, and his velvet... dress... strained to cover his bulk. The velvet was violet, worn and stained, and too heavy for the late spring's heat. His hat had a wide brim that extended out past his shoulders, and as Alfonzo had said, was covered in rooster tail feathers.

_(That... is the ugliest thing I have ever seen. Ever. In my life. And I'm including that mess in the back alley of Weston and Fifth in that one town...)_

"Come," Alfonzo said, and clapped Jackson on the shoulder. "We must be in place before he reaches his box."

Jackson nodded, and followed the older Assassin to the edge of the roof. This part of town had wide, wide streets, too wide to jump across. And they would be noticeable doing so, too. That was not the Assassin way. Instead, they moved to the side away from the street, and dropped down into an alley. There, they paused a moment for Alfonzo to discreetly flex the ache from his knees, and headed across to the back of the Teatro San Cassiano. At the back, they presented themselves as stagehands, and as they had spent the past six weeks working as such, their story was obviously believed.

Once inside, they moved immediately to the shadows, timing their vanishing for when no one around them was paying attention.

Their time as stagehands had taught them the layout of the building. Alfonzo began climbing up to the top of the building, using ropes, rough sections of brickwork, and the wooden walkways to go ever higher. Jackson followed, as much to learn as in case the senior Assassin slipped and needed to be caught.

Once they were as high as it was possible to climb, at the level the real stagehands called 'the Gods'- for surely being so high up meant one was close to God Himself- Jackson led the way. He, as the younger, had been the one sent to clamber all around the Gods, while Alfonzo, older, had been kept lower to the ground. Their 'boss' couldn't know that Alfonzo had more grace and skill- and yes, a better head for heights- than any of the young men working at the opera house, save Jackson.

So it was Jackson who led the way to the little door, barely big enough for Alfonzo, tall and with broad shoulders, to squeeze through. The door let them into the space between the walls, used for ventilation and at least partially to insulate the inside of the building from the temperatures outside. Master Bunnymund had actually taught a lesson about that, once, Jackson remembered. Considering Italy was so... so _warm_... it was hard to say if it worked or not.

"From here?" Alfonzo asked.

Jackson nodded, and led the way down again. As they went, he considered what to call the space. The stagehands had everything from _servi scale_ , or servant's stairs, to _collocare per scopare_ , and even _thinking_ the words made him look around for his mother, expecting her to smack him and then wash his mouth out with soap. After spending far too long dwelling on the subject, he decided to just call it the ventilation hallway. That was, essentially, what it was.

Lower down, closer to the viewing boxes for the nobles and rich merchants, the ventilation hallway showed greater use. It was a convenient shortcut for the cleaners, and for some of the higher servants as well.

Jackson stopped at a level just above a certain box, and glanced back at Alfonzo. The senior Assassin nodded, so they entered the crawl space.

Jackson wasn't sure why the crawl space had been left as it was. Perhaps for more insulation? This time, against sound traveling from one box to the next? The space they squirmed through was just barely big enough for them to crawl, pressed flat against their stomachs and inching their way a little at a time. It was harder for Alfonzo than it was for Jackson, of course, but the older man was well used to minor discomfort.

They reached the spot just over Liborio Dinapoli's box, and stopped there. Jackson had drilled several small holes through the plaster and wood, both to mark the spot and so they could better hear what was said inside the box. The holes were too small to see through, though. A pity, but if they were any bigger, they would be visible.

"How long?" he whispered to Alfonzo.

"Not long. He will want to be in his box soon, with Signore Piero the Bald."

Jackson paused, and looked up at Alfonzo. "What?"

The other man chuckled. Quietly, of course. "He was named for Piero de' Medici, yes? A... great-grand-nephew or some such nonsense. Only he is going bald, and as he is not properly a Medici, the name has stuck. But is never used to his face."

Of course not. Whether he had a claim to the de' Medici name or not, this Piero was associated with the poisoner clan. He would not call the de' Medici's assassins, not even in his own mind, for they were a poor and shallow people next to those Master Bunnymund had called on.

Alfonzo was right; Liborio and Piero were not long in reaching their box. Jackson closed his eyes, the better to listen, as he heard two- no, three- people enter the room. There was the rustle of clothing as two of the people sat down, while the third, undoubtedly one of the servers, put down several somethings that clinked- a bottle and two glasses, perhaps- and then left.

"Such a public place for a meeting," one man said. He had a nasal, whiny voice. "Piero," Alfonzo whispered, and Jackson immediately paired name with voice in his mind.

"And yet no one will suspect a thing, or notice. Particularly not once the music begins."

"Even so. Too many people can see me here, with you."

"If we call for the curtains to be even partially closed, we will be suspected of amoral acts. Other, of course, than what either of us currently get up to."

"You don't care for trouble with the law?"

"Bribes can get so expensive."

They fell quiet at that, leaving the two Assassins to lie and wait. They were able to hear other, more distant conversations, individual words muffled by distance and the walls. They could hear the clink of glasses- presumably glasses- being picked up and put down, the clink of a bottle being picked up, the slosh of a liquid being poured out, and then another clink of the bottle being put back down.

It was actually rather boring.

* * *

When I came up out of the Animus, my head was reeling from talk about shipping and receiving and poisons and bribes and- and the first words out of my mouth, which should have been "I never want to go on a stakeout ever again" were " _Non ho mai voglia di andare su un appostamento mai più_."

Tooth stared at me as if I'd just grown two extra heads and maybe a few tentacles. I smacked myself in the forehead, hard, and tried again.

"Ouch, and since when could I talk Italy?" I asked, and then smacked myself in the forehead again. "Italian. And, random, but I have this sudden craving for pizza."

At least she rolled her eyes at me, though she still looked worried. "Any headaches?"

"For once, no," I said, and stood up. All the blood immediately rushed to my feet, and I groaned. "Correction, yes."

"Come on." Tooth helped me over to the couch, but I waved her to a stop there. The headache wasn't so bad, really, compared the first couple. I was adjusting. That was worrying, but... Well, not being laid out half the day was also pretty good, too. Though what I'd do with my free time was a question better left for another day.

And... Huh. I had an idea. Tooth gave me an odd look- maybe it was the maniacal grin, or the way I was rubbing my hands together- but whatever, idea.

"Hey, Tooth?"

"Yes, Jack?"

I turned around in my seat and watched as she headed back over to the Animus. "If Pitch didn't have your sister and escape was a thing, would you do it? Take the chance?"

Tooth hunched over the machine. "But he does have my sister."

"Say he didn't." The idea was coming together in my mind. It'd take some doing. Actually, a lot of doing. And I'd probably get caught. And if and when I got caught, I'd probably be beaten, possibly even killed. But... idea.

"Then yes, but-" Tooth turned around, and whatever she saw in my expression made hope kindle in her eyes. "What is it?"

I looked up at the ceiling. More specifically, at the vent cover directly over my head. "Think I could fit in through there?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this is the last of the short chapters! Next chapter is a doozy! ... and not to be seen for a week, because I am evil, yes indeed...
> 
> For the record, so far all historical figures are completely made up. Except for the fact that the Medicis (who normally stuck in Florence) existed. According to (Corgi's) research, at this point in time the Medici influence was on the wane, so my justification for them being in Venice involves trying to get some influence back and... well, you'll see next chapter.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: This chapter has date rape drugs, rape, and general nastiness. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Master Bunnymund hopped up out of the odd hole in the ground, and it closed once he was out. A small flower, some sort of frilly purple thing, bloomed where the ground had closed up. Jackson supposed his sister would know what the flower was, if it was from around Burgess, but he didn't recognize it. His lessons had involved what could be used to heal, or hurt, and apparently the flower was neither.

Jackson did his best to appear nonchalant about the whole thing, because Assassin Alfonzo was gaping like the country cousin.

And Master Bunnymund grinned at the both of them. "'Ello my lads. What's so important you had to call me in, hm?"

"Oh, ah," Alfonzo said, stuttering a touch. "The new drug the Medicis are smuggling in. For the Templars. It is doing... something odd, to those who take it. We saw the test on one of their prisoners..."

He offered the sample of the drug they had stolen. It was in a twist of wax paper, but after seeing what had happened to the prisoner, they both had taken the precaution of wearing gloves. Heavy ones, of the kind blacksmiths used while working the metal.

"Ah, yeah?" Master Bunnymund pulled a pair of glasses, with gold rims and _green_ glass, out of a pouch. "Let me take a look-see, then."

"Be careful," Jackson warned. Alfonzo looked astonished, and stared at him. For warning Master Bunnymund?

"Of course." Master Bunnymund also pulled out a pair of gloves, ones made for his odd hands.

They were in one of the Assassins' safe houses, in a less well-off district of Venice. While the outside was as ramshackle as its neighbors, the inside had been refurbished. While there was nothing, on the ground floor, to give anyone pause for thought, the upstairs had been sectioned into many, _many_ small bedrooms, good enough for a night's sleep and no more, as well as an alchemical laboratory. Neither Jackson nor Alfonzo were very good with the alchemical side of being an Assassin, although they could both make the basic poisons and cures that were occasionally utilized in their work.

Master Bunnymund, of course, was a master alchemist. Or, as he called it, _scientist_.

The Master Assassin began to work, and Jackson metaphorically sat back and watched. He took up a pose one of his teachers had laughingly called 'propping up a wall', leaning back against a wall with his arms folded. Truly, Master Bunnymund was impressive, when in his element.

The fact that Jackson had yet to see Master Bunnymund outside of his element had no bearing on the observation.

Alfonzo, after a few minutes, took out a small book and began to read. Perhaps he didn't see the rabbit-man as interesting as Jackson did.

Master Bunnymund moved with absolute surety, dropping a few grains of the poison into various liquids and studying the reactions, and then mixing other powders with a sample of the poison and then dropping the mixture into various liquids.

It took hours before he finished with his work, and peeled off his gloves. "Going to burn those," he muttered, and dropped them on the table. "Jackson, Alfonzo. Questions for you."

Jackson shoved off the wall, and Alfonzo closed his book. He had started reading a few pages in, and now there were only a few pages left. "Yes, sir?" they said, almost in unison.

"What'd you see happen to the bloke this got used on?"

Jackson and Alfonzo shared a look. Age, language, culture; the barriers simply fell away as they were unified by a shared horror. "I tell you, sir, it was like nothing I have ever seen before," Alfonzo said. "The prisoner was a woman, and she was _wild_ , fighting like a mad thing, howling at the top of her lungs."

"The Medici, I don't believe I know which one he was, said something about a prostitute," Jackson added.

"Probably wanted a sex slave," Master Bunnymund muttered. "An' she wanted none of it."

"Yes, well," Alfonzo said, taking up the story again. "They tied her to a chair, then... forced perhaps _half_ of what we brought to you as a sample into her mouth, and then forced her to drink."

"She did not fight," Jackson added. "She became stiff, all over, and then..."

"Relaxed," Alfonzo finished.

Jackson grimaced. 'Relaxed' was too kind a word for what had happened. The moment she had slumped over, the guards had cut her free of the chair, in their haste cutting her, and the woman had not reacted.

She had not reacted to anything, except when the Medici had given her an order to strip, which she had done. When she had been ordered to lie back and spread her legs, she had done that too. And then the Medici had given his guards permission to... to...

They had taken the remains back to a cell, although Jackson did not think the woman would have run, even if she hadn't been so damaged physically. Whatever the poison was, it had destroyed her will.

Judging by Master Bunnymund's expression, he knew what had not been said. "I see." He folded his arms, and lowered his head in thought. "D'you want me to explain what this stuff is in detail, or summarize?"

"Summarize," Alfonzo requested. Jackson nodded agreement.

"It's magicked," Master Bunnymund growled. Alfonzo jerked in surprise. Jackson just nodded; of course magic existed. There was Master Bunnymund, of course, and then... well, who knew what all else?

"But surely," Alfonzo said, looking worried. "Surely magic is not real? Is it not said, by you in fact, that magicians perform their art through trickery and alchemy, not through spellwork?"

"It's true, what those charlatans do isn't magic," Master Bunnymund said. He pulled off the odd glasses, and tucked them away in a pouch. "But what an Apple of Eden does _is_ magic, and it looks like Pitch has a hold of one."

"An Apple?" Jackson whispered, horror making his blood run cold. "Truly?"

"Looks like," Master Bunnymund said, his voice as grim as the Final Reaper. "That stuff... it kills off free will. Removes all choice, all dissent... leaves behind a husk, a living doll that'll do whatever it's told. Death'd be better."

"Is it permanent?" Alfonzo asked, after a slight pause. "Or does it need to be reapplied?"

Master Bunnymund shook his head slowly. "Permanent. And it can be spread through water without losing its potency."

Jackson blanched, and stared at the jug of water on a small stand by the door. "It can?" he asked.

"Yes. Hasn't yet, I can tell that much. Well, we'd have a bunch of lifeless folk standing around if it had. But we need to stop the Medicis, and anyone else, making their move." Master Bunnymund straightened up to his full height, ears tilting back to avoid the ceiling. "Tonight."

"There will not be enough time to gather everyone," Alfonzo began.

Master Bunnymund turned and stared at him, expression firm. " _Tonight_ ," he said again.

Jackson bowed his head and concentrated on his breathing. Tonight.

Yes. They would stop this horror tonight.

* * *

I finished my, ah, _repairs_ to the vent cover, and stepped back. Yeah, that _looked_ right, but it sure wasn't very firm. The cover would come off with a single tug, and would go back on with a bit of pressure. It helped that it was a wall vent, not a ceiling one, and fit snuggly into the frame.

Working on a way to get into the ventilation system was a good distraction from the Overland memories, but not a great one. Talking with Tooth helped. Jackson had seen a lot in his life so far, things that not even my time on the street had prepared me for.

Like that woman... I pushed the memory away, but I knew I'd have nightmares about it later. Not that nightmares were anything new. Ever since first hopping into the Animus, my dreams had been pretty consistently unsettled. The only difference was that I was starting to remember them.

It was almost enough to make me ask for something alcoholic, and potent. I didn't want to remember my nightmares. They were, well, _nightmares_. Who'd want to remember those?

At the same time, though, the very _thought_ of losing control... Yeah, no. Tooth was worried about me, I could tell. She probably heard me wake up screaming at least once a night. Probably brought up bad memories for her, too.

I tugged on the vent cover, and it popped off. Good. Getting into the duct system wasn't as easy as the movies and TV shows I'd been watching lately had it. For one thing, the vent was something like six and a half feet, maybe a full seven feet, off the ground. And I'm only five-foot-four. Short? Yes I am. Makes me look way too young, actually.

For another, about getting into the vent, the opening was only a little wider than my shoulders, and it was impossible to get a good grip on the edge. I finally had to create a kind of staircase out of my bed, which was _heavy_ and hard to drag across the carpet.

I managed, though, and squirmed inside.

* * *

The Italian night was not the best for clandestine skulking. Not even in the countryside. Jackson eyed the full moon overhead with resignation, and then did his best to get even deeper in shadow. As he was crouched behind a stubby bush that grew barely taller than his knee when he stood up, it wasn't easy.

Alfonzo had identified the place where Liborio and Piero had agreed to exchange the smuggled goods for coin. The one thing the two Assassins had been able to confirm had been that the sample of the drug they had secured, and the sample used on the poor woman, had not been part of the main shipment. There was still an issue with what the Medicis currently had, but they would deal with that once they had finished with the smugglers.

Master Bunnymund had, like actual rabbits, vanished the moment he stopped moving. Where he was, not even Jackson could tell. Alfonzo, given consideration for his age, had claimed a copse of trees as his place of concealment. Jackson got the small bush and slight ditch.

The agreement the two Assassins had overheard had involved the trade being done three hours after midnight. It was now almost to that point, with the moon low to the horizon. With luck, it would be fully down by the time the smugglers and Medici employed thugs arrived.

And if luck failed... Jackson twisted his wrist, not quite enough to extend the hidden blade, but to feel the leather sheathe strapped to his forearm. He had never killed before. He wasn't sure what would happen to him when he did. But for men such as _these_ , surely even God would applaud his actions.

It would not be in question for long. Jackson could hear hoof beats.

There were five horses, four riders, coming from Venice. And from the other direction, three horses, one rider. Jackson held very, very still, hardly daring to breathe. He knew, he'd been taught, that it was inevitably _motion_ that gave away a hiding place. In the dark, in the shadows, he was well hidden. Especially with men used to practicing their _thuggery_ in homes and at dinner parties.

Poisoners, who thought some skill with herbs and alchemy made them _Assassins_. Jackson struggled to control his expression, but his lip curled all the same.

More, when he realized one of the men coming from Venice was the Medici who had given orders to that poor girl. One hand clenched into a fist. It would be fast, he decided, but not kind. A quick stab to the back, between the ribs and into a lung. The man would suffocate as his lung collapsed. There was not, so far as Jackson knew, any way to heal such an injury without Master Bunnymund's assistance and magic.

The Medici and his men reined their horses to a halt... unkindly. Jackson winced on the beasts' behalf. Poor things, they either had mouths like iron from such treatment, or more likely, had simply had their spirits destroyed. Perhaps both. The smuggler was gentler with his mount, though not by much.

"So," the Medici said, and swung down off his horse. "You have it?"

"I do," Liborio said. He sounded satisfied, smug. Jackson tensed his muscles in preparation for an attack.

The moment threatened to drag on, but then it was broken.

Alfonzo sighed, and fell forward, blood staining the mottled brown of his tunic.

Jackson rolled to the side, just as one of the Medici guards turned and shot a crossbow at his hiding place.

Well. It couldn't have been that good a hiding place, since they knew where he was, now could it?

He got up to one knee, and threw one of the heavy darts he favored for distance weapons. The guard cursed and dropped his crossbow. The dart had hit him in the bicep, just above the elbow. Not incapacitating, as such, but certainly painful.

Master Bunnymund _erupted_. He had two knives, one nearly long enough to be a short sword, and he threw himself at the smugglers with a ferocity that left Jackson blinking.

Not for long, though. Alfonzo had been hurt, somehow. He skirted the fighting, and fell to his knees beside the older Assassin.

The man did not move when Jackson shook his shoulder. Then the younger man rolled Alfonzo over, only to discover he'd had his throat cut. The wound glistened, the blood still fresh, turned black in the moonlight.

The tip of a sword scraped over Jackson's cheek. He looked up, and stared at Piero.

"Ah," the man said. "Two for one. How nice."

Piero had killed Alfonzo. Alfonzo, who had done _nothing_ to deserve such an end. He had been a good man; to die at the hands of this... this coward...!

It was not to be borne.

"No," Jackson said, and made the twist of his arm that extended the hidden blade.

Then he stabbed the blade into Piero's groin.

The Italian shouted, and his sword tumbled to the ground. Jackson wrenched his blade free, and snatched up the sword with his other hand.

Then he decapitated Piero.

Blood... blood was everywhere. It coated him, saturated his clothing, slid over his skin. It smelt exactly like sheep blood when the family herd was culled. Jackson stumbled backwards, breathing heavily through his mouth. Piero was dead. He had killed the man.

He turned, and caught sight of the fighting.

Master Bunnymund tore through the five men like the expert warrior he was. Jackson had taken a minute, perhaps two, to reach Alfonzo, find him dead, and kill Piero. Master Bunnymund had downed two of the Medici guards, and the smuggler Liborio, in that time. All that was left were the two men; one last guard, and the Medici himself.

Jackson's hand clenched tight on the hilt of the sword, as something- he had no idea what- sparked the memory of that poor woman.

He found himself running forward, hidden blade extended, sword raised.

Master Bunnymund caught sight of his approach, and his eyes widened. He yelled something, but Jackson didn't hear him. Couldn't. There was only the rage and the scent of blood, and the Medici turning to face Jackson.

The guard swung his sword at Master Bunnymund while the rabbit-man was distracted. Master Bunnymund barely twitched, even as he shifted sideways far enough that the blow missed, and then grabbed the man by the arm and sent him flying.

Then Jackson closed with the Medici.

The man had his own sword, and he knew how to use it. Jackson didn't bother with any fancy strikes or parries. He couldn't remember them anyways. Instead he simply slammed his sword into the Medici's, again and again and again.

The Medici got in blows that Jackson couldn't, wouldn't evade, but they were nothing. Scratches. The pain didn't do anything but make him madder, made his attacks stronger.

And then the Medici made a mistake. Jackson pounced, and stabbed his hidden blade into the man's side. Steel grated on bone, stuck, and then tore free as he pulled his hand back.

And then he stabbed the man again, this time just a little higher. And again, to stop the man's screaming. It was high, thin, like a baby rabbit being held up by its hind legs and Jackson needed to _make it stop_.

Someone caught his arms and pulled back. He fought them. He did. He wept and cursed and spat and kicked and punched, but whoever it was, they were inhumanly strong. They forced the sword from his hand. Tore his hidden knife off his arm. Forced him to his knees in the bloody dirt and then held him as he screamed blasphemous curses, as he cried bitterly. Held him until the rage emptied out of him, and left him empty.

Empty, with something inside of him broken. Jackson whimpered, and turned his face a little more into his companion's shoulder. Everyone had told him that taking a life would change him. No one had said it would hurt this much.

"Jackson?" Master Bunnymund ran one hand over Jackson's hair. "You back with me, mate?"

Jackson kept his eyes clenched shut. "Yes, sir," he whispered. Now shame joined the grief and sour dregs of rage, making his stomach curdle and nausea rise in his throat.

"Alright. Alright then, Jackson." He felt Master Bunnymund shift his grip, from restraint to hug, and wondered at it. "Here now. You're alright. It's over now. Deep breaths, there you are."

He followed the Master Assassin's directions, and pulled back. Master Bunnymund let him, though he kept one hand to each of Jackson's shoulders.

"Alfonzo is dead," Jackson murmured, the shameful tears starting up again. He swept them away with the back of one hand, and then stared. His hands were bloody, skin stained red-black in the poor light. And he'd just wiped his face with this hand? He must look like a barbarian, a monster.

"Yeah," Master Bunnymund said. "You were screaming 'bout that while tearing into Raoul de Medici."

Jackson snuck a look over at the corpse, and felt himself go green. _He_ had done that? "I..." He hadn't even known the man's name, only that he was Medici. Only that he had told his guards to hurt that woman, after she had been poisoned and controlled.

The man had deserved to die. He believed it; more, he knew it. But, knowing he had done _that_ to another person...

Jackson shuddered, and gagged. Master Bunnymund helped him shift so that when he vomited, very little of it splattered onto the both of them.

Once he finished throwing up everything in his stomach, Master Bunnymund drew Jackson back against his chest. The Master Assassin murmured comforting sounds, words, in languages Jackson had yet to learn. But he understood the meaning. He closed his eyes and let the comfort be a balm to the ache in his soul.

"C'mon," Master Bunnymund finally said. "We've got to clean up. You know what to say to the dead."

Yes. He did. Jackson moved over to the- to Raoul de Medici first, and murmured the words every Assassin had used for those they killed. " _Requiescat in pace_." He hoped it gave the man's soul some comfort.

He repeated his bid with the next body, and the next, as he and Master Bunnymund moved the corpses off the road and under the trees. It was no perfect hiding place, but it would keep the bodies from being discovered for a day, perhaps two. Perhaps longer, once Master Bunnymund tapped his foot on the road, causing the bloodstained dirt to sink underground, leaving little sign of what had happened.

The horses had long since run off, so that wasn't something they needed to worry about. With nothing left to do, the two Assassins moved over to Alfonzo's corpse. Master Bunnymund knelt down beside the dead man, and murmured something much longer than the usual send off. Then, he closed Alfonzo's eyes, and picked him up.

"Let's go."

Master Bunnymund tapped open one of his tunnels, and nodded Jackson in.

The trip wasn't a long one. Jackson didn't know how it worked. He simply walked forward, bent almost double at the waist, his way lit by glowing moss that grew everywhere in the almost-circular tunnel. Master Bunnymund told him where to turn, and then they were stepping out into the hanging valley in... somewhere, Jackson wasn't actually sure where in the world it was, that the Assassins used as headquarters.

Jackson didn't mind not knowing where he was. What he didn't know couldn't be tortured out of him.

Master Bunnymund directed him to the healers, and then headed towards the graveyard with Alfonzo's body. Jackson turned and walked away. That said it all, didn't it? Assassins were only buried in the valley when they had no other family to claim them. Poor Alfonzo...

The healers tended Jackson quickly, and without any of their usual chatter. They must have sensed his mood. With that chore taken care of- and he, truly, had nothing worse than a few deep scratches and some heavy bruising- Jackson wandered out to the lake, where he could sit and pretend he was back home.

Pretending wasn't working very well at the moment. The grief ebbed and flowed, he thought. For a few minutes at a time, he was able to set it aside and think dispassionately about the whole situation. How had he not guessed that the Medicis and smugglers would send someone ahead of time, to make sure their meeting went undisturbed? Oh, Master Bunnymund and Alfonzo hadn't thought of it either, but that meant nothing, really. He _should_ have thought of it. That he hadn't, made him a failure.

Jackson lowered his head, but didn't cry. He had cried too much, and all in this past night. Enough.

Master Bunnymund found him there. He sat down next to Jackson, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders.

"It's alright to grieve. You've lost part of your innocence now."

Jackson blinked, and found his eyes watering. "My father would say this makes me a man."

"It does," Master Bunnymund agreed. "But not the way he means. Children are... fresh. New. Untouched by the horrors of the world. Like a little seed. Maybe the seed will grow into an oak, maybe it'll grow into a rosebush or bit of lavender. But still, just started. Growing up, becoming an adult, means taking knocks from life, getting some of that new and fresh worn off. Scars." Master Bunnymund turned and looked at Jackson. "Scars change a man. That's why they're scars."

Jackson nodded, and let himself lean sideways against Master Bunnymund. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being here." Just having Master Bunnymund hold him made everything seem as though it might get better. Jackson sniffed. "Thank you, Master Bunnymund."

"Ah, enough of that 'Master Bunnymund' nonsense. You and I will be working together a lot more. Might as well call me Aster."

Jackson's eyes snapped open, and he pulled away in shock. "Are you... are you sure?"

Master Bunnymund looked irritated, ears tilting back and upper lip twitching ever so slightly. "Sure I'm sure. Said I was, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Thank you... Aster."

At that, Master Bunnymund smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Pitch is nasty, the Medici were REALLY nasty (and, while they didn't have mind controlling drugs, they were still bad people.)
> 
> Here, have a long chapter!


	10. Chapter Ten

The ventilation duct was cramped and dusty, and impossible to move through quickly. Sometimes, it seemed impossible to move through at all, and only the discipline I'd picked up from Jackson's memories kept me from giving it all away.

I had panic attacks while crawling through the cramped quarters. Understandable, of course; I had to inch my way along, arms stretched out over my head, pulling with my fingers and pushing with my toes, unable to lift my head, unable to take a deep breath, everything smelling of fear-sweat, and tasting like dust. At least Jackson's experiences made it possible for me to keep silent and still while in the grip of an attack.

Corners were the worst. So far I'd managed to get around them all, but I'd lost chunks of skin doing so. Tooth had cleaned each injury, lips pressed together so they formed a thin white line, hands unbelievably gentle. Either that or my threshold for pain was increasing. Through Jackson, I knew what broken bones felt like, how being stabbed sent fire through my veins and how cuts didn't start to hurt right away but took a minute or two, and then it was like someone had poured acid onto my skin.

Sure, it'd happened to Jackson, but I remembered. That counted for something, right?

I hadn't tried to go down any levels yet. Mostly because I hadn't figured out how to get back up. It wasn't like the vents went down in a vertical drop. For some reason, the vents went down at an angle, twenty-five or thirty degrees. Kind of hard to tell when you couldn't see because there weren't any lights. I had to judge entirely by touch.

I was figuring out the layout for this floor, though. It was possible to crawl up to one of the grates, and look out into the rooms. Backing up was a bitch and a half, but possible. Painful, as every muscle cramped, but possible. I had most of my panic attacks when backing up, actually.

Mostly, the ductwork was set up in a giant square, with branches into the various rooms. I was pretty sure it was a less effective method of heating the place, but Pitch either had his reasons or the tower builders had wanted to get as much money as possible.

There were four 'apartments' on this floor; the one Tooth and I stayed in, and three empty ones that were identical down to the carpet color, except for one thing. No Animus.

That was.... good. The thought that there could be other people being put through the same thing _I_ was, it made me feel sick.

Once I'd circled the entire floor and checked what rooms I could see from the duct system, I returned to my room, wiggled out, and dropped down onto the bed. I'd moved it under the vent opening after I realized I'd be falling to the floor on my head, otherwise.

Except probably not. I'd noticed it, a little here and a little there, that I was getting... better. Just better, at physical things. I knew how to fall so I wouldn't hurt myself. I knew... katas, was the word. A string of punches and kicks and turns, fighting moves.

I knew what Jackson Overland knew. And I knew it all the way he did, in my blood and bone.

It was worrying.

How long before the insanity started to set in? Before I started thinking my name was Jackson, instead of Jack?

I'd started a new habit, after getting out of the Animus, of going to a mirror and making sure I saw white hair and blue eyes.

I was Jack Frost. I had to remember that.

Tooth was worried about me.

* * *

Jackson looked up from the pot, hung over the fire to keep warm, and frowned. "Master Bun- I mean, Aster. Sit down, you look half-dead."

"I feel it," Master Bunnymund admitted. He didn't so much _sit_ down as fall down; his legs gave out halfway to the ground. Jackson pretended not to notice. Fortunately he was the only other person in camp. He didn't think Master Bunnymund's reputation would have survived, never mind that his fur was dull and lifeless, and shedding in clumps. His eyes were a pale olive green instead of the color of new oak leaves, and his hands trembled. They trembled harder when he seemed to be concentrating on holding them still.

"Here." Jackson ladled out a bowl of stew, one made carefully without meat. "Eat."

"Jackson," Master Bunnymund said, a tired wariness in his voice.

"No meat, promise." He pointed at a second pot. "That's for us carnivores. This one's all for you."

Master Bunnymund blinked several times, and then he took the offered bowl, and then a spoon, and began to eat. Jackson took the empty bowl back, filled it, and returned it again. Halfway through the third bowl, Master Bunnymund cleared his throat.

"Thanks," he said, staring into the fire.

"It's easy enough to make two pots," Jackson said. "And I'm not the one doing the dishes."

Master Bunnymund smiled at that. "Too right."

Jackson got a bowl of his own from the other stew pot, which also happened to be bigger. Well, Master Bunnymund was the only one who couldn't eat meat. For everyone else, it was a choice, and mostly, they chose meat. Whatever was left of the meatless pot would go into the bigger pot, once he was sure Master Bunnymund was done eating.

He was done when he mopped the last of the juices out of the bowl with a slice of bread. Jackson put the empty bowl in the pile to be washed, and continued to eat slowly. Master Bunnymund simply sat where he was, staring into the low flames.

"Found a couple people who'd been given the drug," Master Bunnymund said, breaking the quiet between them.

Jackson looked away, knowing what hadn't been said. Those people _couldn't_ live on their own, anymore. They no longer had minds. So the Assassins were... giving them the only freedom left.

"You couldn't do anything else," Jackson said, turning back to Master Bunnymund. "You'd tell any of us the same."

Master Bunnymund wouldn't put that burden on anyone else, Jackson knew. He'd take it on his own shoulders, to slit the throats of unresisting people. Women and children, mostly. The Medicis had been experimenting with the drug on the most vulnerable.

"Just because it's true doesn't mean it's sunk in yet," Master Bunnymund muttered.

Jackson set his bowl aside, and moved to kneel next to the man-rabbit. "Sir," he said, and though he hesitated, he clapped his hand on Master Bunnymund's shoulder. The fur was very soft, and tickled his palm. "What other choice did you have? Take them back with us? They'd become slaves. Worse than slaves. Give them to their families to care for them? If they were lucky, they'd be made the family drudge. Or they'd be sold into prostitution." Even the children. "You _know_ that."

Master Bunnymund nodded slowly. "That's... right. That's exactly right."

"You gave them peace," Jackson murmured. "You freed them. And feeling this way... It's horrible, what we have to do, isn't it?"

"It is," Master Bunnymund said, staring at Jackson's face.

"But if not us," Jackson continued. "Then who?"

Master Bunnymund rested one hand on Jackson's knee. "You're a wise bloke, Overland."

Jackson nodded, and pulled a tag of fur free from Master Bunnymund's shoulder. "And you need a bath."

* * *

"Does Pitch have the drug, still?" I asked Tooth.

"I don't know," she admitted. "You'd think, if he'd use it on anyone..." She looked back at her cooking. Tonight was curry night, and I'd prepared and set out yogurt, milk, and a fire extinguisher. When she'd seen that last, she'd smacked my shoulder and called me an idiot.

I was counting it a win.

"Maybe, maybe not. I mean, when you get right down to it, someone you have to order to do everything? It'd get old, after a while." The people who'd been drugged barely _breathed_ without direction, never mind ate, slept, went to the bathroom... Jackson had seen killing them as giving them peace. I saw it as taking them off life support. There wasn't anything _left_. No mind, no soul. Without that, all that was left was a shell.

"Besides," I added, and took the serving bowl of rice from her. "I don't think they'd be able to use any of those people in the Animus. Nothing to react to the machine."

Tooth shuddered. "Cheerful thought. And with that in mind, let's eat."

For every bite of curry I ate, I must have taken at least three of yogurt. And I must have drunk a full gallon of milk, too, to help ease the burning. Tooth seemed oblivious to the spices, but from what little she'd let slip, she'd eaten this kind of food since she'd started teething.

"Y'know what worries me," I said, and then paused. "Do you think they watch us?"

Tooth raised her eyebrows in question, so I elaborated. "Hidden cameras, microphones. That sort of thing."

"I don't think so." She scowled out the window. "I've been over this place before, and I haven't found anything... For whatever reason, Pitch doesn't seem to care what we do, so long as the... so long as you go into the Animus every day. Unless you're too sick. That happened once. He was furious."

"Maybe they have some way to watch the memories elsewhere, so what we do doesn't matter. We can't escape-" Although I was turning ideas over in my head, for the vents and all, "-and so anything we say or do doesn't matter."

"How could they see the memories?" Tooth craned her neck to look at the Animus behind me. "It's in your head."

"They've got a way for me to relive my ancestor's memories. I don't care what crap they shovel about instinct and all that, that's not possible."

She nodded. "Good point. I wonder... But what were you going to say?"

"How diluted the drug needs to be before it's worthless. And what a diluted dose might do. Make people capable of taking care of themselves, but without... initiative it's called, right?"

"Jack, please stop trying to give me nightmares."

I grinned, wryly because there wasn't any humor to the situation. "Yeah, okay. Sorry. Wasn't trying to." I thought about the memories I'd gotten so far from Jackson. There'd be more. He was an Assassin. Already I knew what it was to take a life. Already I'd woken up and stared into a mirror and seen the cracks in my soul that resulted from such actions. "I think I've got a higher tolerance for horror now, but I blame Overland for that."

"Overland?" Tooth asked, staring at me. "Not... not your memories? Not Jackson?"

I paused to think about it. "I... huh. Y'know, I worried about that. I am worried about that. But he doesn't feel... like me."

It felt more like... a costume I put on, or a story I was acting the part in. It was just a very, very good costume, skin tight, and the part I was acting required me to _be_ that character. But when it was over, I could take the costume off and... stop being Jackson Overland.

The only problem was, a part of me didn't want to stop.

* * *

Jackson readied the strangling cord in one hand, and held himself still with a hunter's patience. The Templar soldier was armed with a flintlock musket, with two long knives at his waist. The musket seemed to be the greater control for the small group of women; they kept looking at it with undisguised terror. Knives were a known threat, but the muskets were still new for common folk.

The new weapons were too loud, too inaccurate for the Assassins, but they knew about them. So Jackson was very careful when he inched his way behind the Templar, and then held very still as he waited for the signal.

The signal wasn't much. Just a quick snatch of birdsong. An American robin, a bird that did not, and had never, belonged to Europe.

Jackson moved smoothly to his feet, threw the loop of strangling cord over the Templar's head, and stabbed him in the kidney with the hidden blade.

It took all of two seconds.

The guard choked, pain and the braided wire digging into his neck making him near silent. Jackson twisted the blade before pulling it out, and then lowered the man to the ground. The man's feet began to drum against the ground as he kicked feebly, but then- it ended. All at once a living, struggling man became a limp corpse, and Jackson no longer needed to keep the cord tight.

He pulled the strangling cord free, and looked up. There had been five guards. Now there were five corpses. The group of women were staring at the five Assassins in terror.

Only to be expected, but it still hurt. They'd _saved_ the women. And they were feared.

"Come," Assassin Fredrick said. He was from somewhere in England, and his Italian was strangely accented. "We will take you to safety."

For the longest time, what felt like hours, the women remained huddled against each other, eyes wide and senseless with terror. They didn't push; Master Bunnymund had given them firm orders about that. The women had to make the choice on their own. That it was the _only_ choice didn't matter, only that the women made it.

"It will be all right," Jackson murmured, when the tension singing across his skin grew too great. "You will be safe. By my honor, I swear this."

The youngest of the women stared at him, and then- looking from Jackson, to Fredrick, and back again- got to her feet. She drew another woman up, a woman slightly older and with enough resemblance that they might be sisters, and then took a single step forward.

Moving the women out of the clearing and away from the corpses was almost laughably easy after that.

Jackson stayed where he was, while the other four Assassins went with the women, guarding and guiding.

He was aware of the moment when he ceased to be alone. There wasn't a sound, he didn't see any movement at the corner of his eye, but one moment he'd been the only living person in the clearing, and the next... there were two.

"Good job," Master Bunnymund said. Jackson turned to face him.

"I did... what any of us would've."

Master Bunnymund smiled oddly, only one corner of his mouth turning up. "You think so?"

"I know so."

There was something warm and approving in Master Bunnymund's eyes. Jackson smiled back.

* * *

The awkward thing about wet dreams... I mean, the _main_ awkward thing about wet dreams...

I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. There was a look in my reflection's eye, a smug, sated look, and I _did not like it_. At all.

"No," I told my reflection. "Just 'cause you're all smug over there, asshole, doesn't mean you know anything I don't. Just 'cause I woke up needing my sheets cleaned doesn't mean anything. Not a thing. Now stop smirking at me!"

My reflection didn't answer, except- if possible- for looking even smugger. I growled, and began brushing my teeth. I kept at it to the point where my gums were starting to bleed, but I didn't think I dared stop. Because if I looked up, I'd have to admit that... that my reflection was just a reflection. So that smug and sated expression I saw? Was on _my_ face. Which meant I was feeling all smug and sated.

Which didn't quite sit right, considering the subject of the dreams. Well, sex, of course, but the- my partner, in the dream acrobatics. That was kind of awkward to think about.

I spat out a mouthful of toothpaste foam, tinted on the edges with blood, and rinsed off the toothbrush. Then I went back to scrubbing, as if that'd scrub out my memory.

Dreams, I'd always figured, was the brain's way of playing an epic 'fuck you' while I slept. I'd always dreamed about impossible things: epic feasts with all the food I wanted to try but never would; warm beds and safe homes; a prince in shining armor who'd show up and save me from the streets. Stuff like that. Or nightmares, nightmares were one of the biggest 'fuck you's my brain could manage. Procurers I'd barely escaped would catch me in my nightmares, or I'd dream of freezing to death, or...

That hadn't changed, here. I still had nightmares, but now I had more fodder for them. I still dreamed, in between waking up screaming in fright, longing for things I didn't have and never would.

I _would_ get free. I didn't dream about that.

No. I dreamed about soft fur under my hands, and a whipcord strong body hovering over mine. I dreamed of hands with only four fingers and thick pads easing my clothing off, of a short muzzle pressing against my face in an approximation of a kiss. I dreamed of warmth and desire and green eyes that looked down at me with utter trust and love.

Like I said. Things I wasn't about to ever get.

Because it'd been, what, three hundred years since Jackson had died, give or take? Jackson's Master Bunnymund was dead, by now.

And I wasn't Jackson.

Bunnymund had loved Jackson, I was sure of it. That soft expression every time he'd looked at my ancestor- not in love yet, not in the memories I'd seen so far, but getting there. Falling a little more every day.

With Jackson Overland. Not Jack Frost.

I finished brushing my teeth, and looked up at my reflection. And despite the direction of my thoughts, or maybe because of them, my reflection looked... soft. Quietly pleased, with a look in its eye as though it knew something I didn't.

Punching the mirror wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done, but it sure was satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is the one where Aster has a problem, and Jack has a problem, and Jackson's annoyingly hetero instead of homo. Much to Aster and Jack's mutual annoyance. Sorry Jack, that annoyance? Going to get worse. Considering, you know, Jackson married... Which means, yes, Jack, you will know what straight sex is like.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Jackson wrapped a long, cotton strip around his elbow, and then did the same to the other arm. It was beginning to get cold, now. Autumn in Italy was like nothing to autumn in America, so apart from the cotton padding around his joints, and a second tunic, Jackson didn't need a coat of any kind.

Master Bunnymund groused about the temperature, but refused to wear any clothes. His fur was good enough, he'd said, while huddling pathetically next to the fire.

Sometime over the last month, the Medici forces in Venice, as well as Pitch's Templars, had figured out that they were under attack. Perhaps it was how very _many_ of their people went missing. Or how their dwellings were broken into and their property destroyed, when it was more than usually difficult to get close to this man or that. The man in question would die shortly after; when there was less risk in getting near, of course.

Jackson had taken part in some of that. Mostly, he was kept close to Master Bunnymund, learning the scant tricks possible for a man without magic to use in a fight with those who _did_ have it.

Handfuls of salt and dried molly flowers. Iron nails. A mirror, of all things, with glass and silver backing of the kind only the nobly born could afford. Jackson had stolen one.

Little tricks that would let him see through illusions. Hints and suggestions that should let him fight a summoned construct- a beast that had no life without the will of its master, often looking like someone had mashed together a great many creatures into one. The chimera, for example, was a construct. No natural beast could live with so many different parts.

Jackson thought he was ready, and good thing to. They had run out of time. The Florentine Medici had cut their Venetian cousins off from the family support, leaving them utterly reliant on Pitch Black's mercy. Or lack of it. The Medicis, more than the Templars, had been whittled down over the weeks until there were only three of the poisoners, and a handful of their guards, left.

Not so the Templars. Of to the soldiers there were many, enough that there were conflicting reports as to their numbers. Master Bunnymund believed, and so Jackson believed, that the higher numbers were most likely correct.

But Pitch Black was here. Jackson sharpened his knives in preparation of meeting the Templar leader, and waited for Master Bunnymund to sound the attack.

He did not have long to wait. Perhaps a week after the Medici and Templar forces retreated to a sheltered villa for protection, the Assassins went to war.

* * *

I braced my elbows and knees against the sides of the duct, and turned my head to one side. Mouth pressed against my sleeve-covered bicep, I coughed and coughed.

According to Tooth, the ventilation system was big enough for me to climb around in because of sanitary reasons. "People need to clean these things. The dust could poison someone, otherwise."

Well, Pitch apparently didn't care about employee complaints, because the dust was _insane_. Either that or he'd decided roombas were the future, and the roombas weren't doing their job. Either way- now that I'd figured out how to go up and down levels, I was coming back from my explorations _gray_. A shower got the worst of it off, but like a mechanic, grime was getting worked into the creases and wrinkles of my hands. No amount of washing, not gallons of hot water or liters of soap, could get all the dust off my skin.

But I was making progress, and making plans.

That could only be a good thing.

* * *

There was a scream, off in the distance, and Jackson instinctively froze. Most of his attention was on the wall beside him; this villa was enclosed, instead of open, but that wasn't unusual for this part of the country. Or for a bit of property owned by the Medici. The wall was a full story and a half in height, with narrow windows that, in another age, would have been used to fire arrows through if there was need. These days, it would be shots from the new muskets, not arrows, the Assassins would face.

If they were seen. Which, of course, they weren't.

Master Bunnymund signaled the advance, a barely-visible shadow, seen more by the stars he blocked out than anything else.

Jackson felt a little sorry for the Medici guards, honestly. They had been drawn outside the walls by the Assassin forces, and now they were facing death in the darkness, trying to stand and fight against foes that would not meet them. Assassins fought by striking and then vanishing, never staying still enough for an attack to be returned.

Of course, he only had to remember the Medici victims for the sympathy to vanish. Easy enough to say the men had only been following orders. One of Master Bunnymund's favorite sayings was "evil wins when good stands aside and does nothing". How could anyone, orders or no, just _stand there_ and watch evil work?

Well, that was why Jackson was an Assassin. Because he _couldn't_ just stand there.

"Here," Master Bunnymund breathed, and slid aside a panel of wood. Jackson breathed evenly, nether too deep nor too shallow. The Italian Assassins had been right; no one had noticed their agent's meddling, or done any repairs.

Unless this was a trap.

He touched the leather sheath against the inside of his wrist, shielding the hidden blade. Well, if it was a trap, they would just have to deal with it.

He followed Master Bunnymund through the hole in the wall.

The wall around the villa was not even a foot thick, and the hole was just big enough if Jackson twisted and ducked. Master Bunnymund simply dropped to crouch on all fours, and crawled through. Once on the other side there was a dearth of hiding places. Either the courtyard had been planned out as empty of so much as a bench or bush, or the changes were recent, with attacking Assassins in mind.

Jackson almost snorted, but his training was too good for that. Instead, he rolled his eyes and followed Master Bunnymund across the short distance between wall and villa, and from there up to the roof.

For someone who had been training to be an Assassin from a young age, the climb up the side of the villa, two and a half stories up to the roof, was child's play. Almost literally; it took him less time to climb than it would have to walk the same distance.

Jackson took the lead on the roof, though he suspected it was only so Master Bunnymund could test his knowledge. Jackson found the attic access with a minimum of fumbling, and then they were in.

And they began their sweep through the villa, leaving death behind them.

The Templar soldiers were keyed up and ready for a fight, but they were looking in all the wrong places. They watched the doors and the windows, and never, ever thought to look _up_.

They died silently, by ones and twos, by the knife and the garrote. They died with broken necks and cut throats, and the bodies were left where they fell. There was no point in hiding the corpses, not here and not tonight.

Master Bunnymund left Jackson halfway through the sweep, muttering something about Pitch. Jackson didn't ask; simply kept on with his work of eliminating the threat.

He'd returned to the courtyard, having cleared all the rooms he'd found. Sweat and blood mixed together and dripped off him. Tonight, his hair and skin were red with a small portion of the lives he'd taken.

The world lit up with all the fury of hell.

Jackson lifted his head and spat out dirt. He was two dozen feet _past_ where the villa wall _had_ been. He had absolutely no memory between the sky lighting up and tasting dirt. At some point in the intervening time, the villa had exploded. The remains weren't even on fire, at least partially because there wasn't much left to _burn_.

There was a splinter through his arm.

It was starting to hurt.

Jackson took a deep breath, and shoved up off the ground with his good arm. Once he was somewhat upright, kneeling on the ground, he took hold of the splinter- Christ above, the thing had to be a foot long and as thick as three fingers at the widest part- and began pulling it back out through the wound. Most of the largest part was still outside his arm, and he sure as _Hell_ wasn't going to make the injury any _worse_.

Blood dripped down his arm, and mostly off his elbow. Sweat made clean tracks- or cleaner, nothing was going to get him clean without soap- down his face, stung in his eyes. And the sliver came free.

That was when the pain _really_ began.

Jackson groaned, and fumbled at his belt pouch. He was getting blood and sweat and dirt all over the bandages, but infection didn't seem that big of a worry compared to bleeding to death. Wrapping his own arm was... difficult didn't exactly cover it, but it was the only word he had that didn't involve blasphemy.

At least he'd been taught how.

His arm felt a little better once he had the bandages wrapped around it. Pressure slowed the bleeding to the point where the _hole_ in his arm might actually scab over. It also eased the pain from scream-worthy to something he'd only groan over, if he actually dared make a noise.

... The villa had _exploded_.

( _What the hell...? Dynamite? Or... Thermite, maybe, it's a stronger explosive...? But they couldn't have had thermite back then, it's a plastic-based explosive!)_

Jackson got to his feet, waited out the expected light headedness, and then went looking for Master Bunnymund.

( _No one could have survived that!)_

Jackson paused, and then shielded his eyes as the sky lit up _again_.

Lightning, or something very much like, flickered just past a mound of rubble big enough to block his view. Very odd lightning, that kept close to the ground...

Jackson dodged around the rubble, a portion of his mind noting that it was made up of bits of a wall, couch, another wall, and a chunk of roof, the rest concentrating on his footing and not screaming in pain.

And then, when he cleared the rubble and was able to see what was going on, he could only stop and stare.

Master Bunnymund was fighting. Not training, not a skirmish, not an assassination- _fighting_.

He moved so fast Jackson could barely _see_ him.

And _he_ was the source of the odd lightning.

The lightning licked out and wrapped around a dark shadow, one that moved independent of a source. The shadow flexed, and the lightning-bonds shattered, setting the grass afire wherever the fragments landed.

Master Bunnymund snarled, and- _where_ had he gotten that _sword_? The next series of strikes and parries were too fast for Jackson, and left him blinking and shaking his head.

The shadow Master Bunnymund fought jumped back, and the very trees bent down and wrapped their branches around it. Something- the shadow?- screeched, and wood shattered.

Jackson ducked, just in case any more deadly splinters flew his way.

Master Bunnymund yelled something, the language like nothing Jackson recognized, and threw an orb of light at the shadow.

The orb exploded, but the shadow seemed to simply sway around the light, remaining unhurt. Some of the shadow-substance peeled away, revealing a man, very pale skinned and wearing very dark clothing. Jackson blinked the spots away from his vision, and watched Master Bunnymund and the man trade blows for a heart stopping minute.

This had to be Pitch Black. The leader of the Templars.

Jackson clenched his fist, and stared at the man responsible for _that drug_. Everything that had happened, every victim of the drug, every life destroyed- it was all on that man's head!

At last, he would pay. Master Bunnymund would make him pay!

The fight continued. Master Bunnymund made the very grass attack Pitch, the trees and bushes and all in between striking out or wrapping around him. Lightning flicked out time and again. Fires burned low and sullen, but flared up bright and hungry when Pitch was forced near them.

Yet the man would not die!

He had a sword as well, a black blade that didn't reflect any light. The shadows fought for him, writhing and striking at Master Bunnymund as the trees attacked Pitch. And- Jackson didn't believe his eyes, the blood loss had to be getting to him- it was almost as though Pitch was able to step through shadows to avoid blows that _should_ have connected, but didn't.

No, that was impossible. The man was just fast, that was all. As fast as Master Bunnymund.

Not unmarked. Master Bunnymund had yet to land a _killing_ blow on Pitch, but Jackson couldn't help but grin at the sight of blood trickling down Pitch's forehead. The man favored his right leg, and was gasping for breath.

Master Bunnymund hadn't avoided injury, though, and his seemed worse than Pitch's. Blood matted down the gray fur on Master Bunnymund's side, and trickled down his face from a cut over his nose. If Pitch was gasping, Master Bunnymund was wheezing, with that paticular gurgling sound that meant he had a punctured lung.

No. No! No, not- Master Bunnymund was the best of them!

Jackson took a deep breath, and paid careful attention to the fight. Master Bunnymund must have been injured by the explosion. That was the only answer! So, he needed help. Only God was perfect! And Master Bunnymund had never claimed to be _that_. So he needed help, and Jackson seemed to be the only one available.

His good arm was injured, but he only needed to land a single blow. A good, solid strike- he could manage that, he thought.

Pitch moved to the side, and presented his back to Jackson.

It could not have been any more perfect.

Jackson lunged forward, and plunged his hidden blade into Pitch's back.

The Templar leader roared with pain and fury, and whirled on Jack. The hidden blade twisted and pulled free with a nasty, wet _shlock_ sound.

Pitch Black did not seem to notice.

He snarled, and when Jackson slashed at him with the hidden blade, he caught it.

He caught the blade. With his bare hand.

And tore it free of the sheath, wrenched Jackson's arm out of the socket with the same motion, and then threw the blade to the side-

-Into Master Bunnymund's stomach.

Jackson yelled, but he was abruptly choked off. Pitch grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him up.

"Children, Aster?" he asked. Absurdly, for such an evil man, he had a pleasant voice. Or it would be pleasant, if Jackson wasn't hearing a nasty roaring sound over everything as he struggled to breathe.

Just one breath. Just one.

"You set children against me, and think to win?" Pitch chuckled, and then-

And then Jackson was flying.

Headfirst into a tree.

The darkness was a blessing.

* * *

It'd taken far too many weeks, but I'd finally reached my goal. The apartment was a full ten levels below where Tooth and I were imprisoned, but I'd made it. The place had been set up with smaller furniture than my roommate and I enjoyed, but then, the only occupant couldn't have been more than ten, maybe eleven years old. And apart from mealtimes, when a severe faced older woman showed up, alone.

It wasn't time to eat, so the hatchet-face wasn't in sight. The little girl was curled up on her bed, reading- or trying to read- a book.

No better time.

I worked the butter knife I'd filched from the kitchen into the crack between the edge of the vent, and the cover. Then I started to pry.

She looked up at the first sound, but didn't go running like I'd half expected. Resignation? Entirely possible, I supposed, and suppressed the desire to find Pitch and beat his head in with a stick. Scaring little girls... oh yeah, real big man, having to terrorize children...

I muttered and swore and managed to pry the vent cover free. It fell to the carpet, with only a dull thud to mark the impact. The carpet had to be thicker than what was put in my room. I felt almost insulted, considering. Why did I get the sub-par carpeting?

I wiggled my way halfway out of the vent, and waved. "Hi there."

The little girl waved back, her eyes very wide. Either it was popping out of the vent, or all the dust, who knew?

"Can I come in?" I asked. "Only I don't think I can turn around."

"O-okay..." She bit her lip, and watched as I tumbled down onto the carpet, turning my fall into a controlled roll.

I stood up, and brushed myself off. "Hey there, Baby Tooth," I said. "My name's Jack Frost. Your sister's been worried about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, obviously Pitch can't be dead in Jackson's time yet, so he needed stopped. Also, he's a super-boss, Bunny. You can't take him out alone, and you can't take him out with Jackson, who's kinda normal-man. You need a superman. -stares at Jack- Hey kid, wanna be Clark Kent?


	12. Chapter Twelve - Interlude

Jyotsna- Tooth's sister, who adored the nickname Baby Tooth- leaned forwards. "But what happened to Overland?" she asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Well, it's hard to say, medically..."

"You lived it," she told me, as if I'd somehow forgotten. "You have to know!"

"I know what Overland knew." I tapped one finger against her nose. She blinked, and giggled at me. "He doesn't know how he survived. I have guesses, but nothing solid."

"Guesses work. Do you want milk?"

"I'd love a glass," I said. Baby Tooth nodded, and pointed at the couch.

"Stay here."

I nodded, and settled back against the cushions. Baby Tooth had gotten plenty cranky the last time I'd tried to help her out in the kitchen.

I would say this about Pitch's minions, they left her alone most of the time, but they had also child-proofed her apartment. There weren't any upper cabinets, so she wasn't tempted to climb up onto the counter. The furniture was either the overstuffed and puffy kind, or child-sized. There were no knives, and only safety scissors. She had a shower stall, not a bathtub. That sort of thing. And for a nine year old, she was amazingly independent, although that might have been because she'd been held hostage for the last... three or four years. Baby Tooth didn't know, and Tooth had never exactly told me.

Maybe the thought was just too depressing.

Baby Tooth got two glasses out of the lower cupboard, and then got herself the milk from the fridge. She poured both glasses half full, put the milk back, and then proudly carried the glasses over to where I was sitting on the couch.

"Thanks," I said, and took my glass. Baby Tooth set hers on the end table, climbed back up onto the couch, and then sipped at her drink.

"So?" she said. "What do you guess?"

"About Overland? Bunny-" I'd shorted Bunnymund's name, because Baby Tooth insisted. Honestly, I preferred the shorter version. "-Was able to re-grow Overland's finger, back when he was a kid. I don't think a broken neck would've been a challenge to him."

"Overland broke his neck?" Baby Tooth stared at me, wide eyed and horrified. "And you felt it?"

"Nope." I took a sip of milk to hide my lie. I'd felt _something_ , a great deal of pain that'd thrown me out of the Animus. With prejudice.

"I thought you said Bunny died." Baby Tooth pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. "You said he got knifed."

"Bunny's tough. I swear," I said, amused at myself, "I swear that if he'd lived long enough to meet modern tanks? Bunny, one, tank, zero."

Baby Tooth giggled, and nodded in agreement. "So?"

"So, he was there when Jackson woke up." With a particularly helpless, besotted look. I kept from hunching my shoulders, but only just. Bunny had looked at Overland like a man lost at sea did when he was presented with a life boat. Not _quite_ 'reason for living' levels, but pretty damn close. And Overland didn't have a clue.

It hurt. Because... because I kept wanting to- to do things Overland hadn't, like reach out to Bunny and cup that furry cheek in one hand and say that I felt the same way. That trembling newness, like a butterfly just before its first flight, the first blush of love...

Only I couldn't. The one time I tried, I got kicked out. De-syncing.

I did think my brain had tossed up an imagined memory of what I'd wanted to do, though. I'd come out of that session with a headache and the feeling of soft fur against my palm.

And oh boy, had my dreams been interesting that night!

Not exactly the sort of thing I could tell the kid, though.

"And then what?" Baby Tooth finished off her milk. "What happened then?"

"Physical therapy," I admitted. "Pain in the... Jackson had been unconscious long enough to lose some muscle and stuff, and I spent the last three weeks pretty much remembering all the laps he ran. It was boring!"

She looked disappointed. "That's it?"

"Well, there was talking, too. Bunny explained a few things about those Apple things."

_"Pitch wants them because they can grant you humans powers," Master Bunnymund said. "That's the least of what they can do, but his Templars are rather... Well, you saw. How much better would things be for him, if his men could do things only Angels should be capable of?"_

_"Why tell me these things?"_

_"Because I... I've done this for others, before. I can grant you powers, Jackson. Not- not the way you're thinking of," he said, in response to panicked eyes. "Little things. Faster healing. Bit of speed. Strength, stamina, that sort of thing. Nothing to take you from human to... not."_

(And he'd wanted to reach out and brush the worry from that face, but Overland hadn't, so he couldn't.) _"I need to think about it."_

_"Take all the time you need, Cobber. No hurry. Now go do some laps."_

_"But- Aster-!"_

_"Twenty should do it."_

"Like what?" Baby Tooth asked, knocking me out of the memory.

"The Apples can grant people superpowers," I told her, and nodded when she gasped.

"Thor!" She bounced up and down on the couch. "Thor! Thor's got an Apple! He does, doesn't he? Did you meet him? I want to meet Thor!"

Who- huh- who was Thor? I knew what the name meant in a historical sense- Norse god of Thunder- but something told me that _wasn't_ what she was talking about. "Um, no?"

"But he _has_ to," she whined.

"Overland never met anyone named Thor," I temporized.

"Oh." Baby Tooth pouted, and then stared up at me. "What about Captain America? He'd go by Steve Rogers. No? Um... Bruce Banner! Clark Kent!"

I stopped shaking my head and stared at her. "Superman's a guy from a _comic book_ ," I protested.

"But _you_ said-"

"Real life superpowers, not turning people into comic books, kid." I shook my head. Then I checked the clock, and made a face. "I should get back. Your dinner's going to be along soon. Any messages for the big sis?"

Baby Tooth nodded. "Um, I love her and miss her and wanna get out of here and she promised me Disney World. Don't let her forget, Jack?"

"Kid, at this rate, _I'm_ going to need a trip to Disney World." I ruffled her hair, and stood up. "Show me out?"

Baby Tooth nodded, and led me back to her bedroom, with the vent cover I used for a front door. I squirmed up in, and then headed through the vents to the upper levels and my apartment.

At least my frequent trips through the vents had gotten rid of most of the dust.

It took a while- it always took a while- but Tooth had kept dinner warm for me. I took a quick shower, and then headed out to the kitchen.

"Hey, Tooth," I said. "Baby sends her love and best wishes, and made threats of Mickey Mouse ears at me. I think I've been drafted to play pack mule for you girls at Disney."

Tooth grinned at me, with only the faintest shadow of fear. "You'll love it, we'll only load you down with too many bags to move."

Dinner tonight was something with crispy vegetables and a lightly spiced sauce over a bed of rice. I tucked in with a will, stomach uncomfortably close to my backbone. "Hey, Tooth?" I asked, once the first edge had been taken off.

"No, Jack, you don't get wine."

"Don't want any. No, got a question for you." I licked a drop of sauce off my thumb.

Tooth raised her eyebrows, but gestured for me to continue.

"The midget was talking about somebody named Thor, and Steve Rogers, and Bruce Banner, like it meant something- Tooth, why are you laughing?"

It took her a minute to stop and catch her breath. "Tomorrow, we'll start on the movies. It'll take a few days, there's a lot of them."

"Movies?" I asked.

"Eat your vegetables, Jack."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, and I'm sorry, short chapter. Unfortunately, that's what happens when you can't figure out how to make PT (where nothing much) interesting happens. Also, no, Overland didn't break his neck. Major concussion and some broken hip bones, but Aster fixed him right up (and then fretted over the unconscious man's bedside.)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Jackson urged the last of the sheep out of the pen and into the field, and leaned sideways on his shepherd's staff. His father grunted, doing the same beside him.

"Good to have you home," the older man said. His hair was almost completely gray now, Jackson realized. He'd noticed, but for some reason it hadn't struck home until this moment. Gray hair, face a weathered mess of wrinkles from being out in all weather, muscles just beginning to lose their youthful definition.

His father was getting old.

How... unsettling.

"I'd like to say the same," Jackson said. Healed wounds set off faint twinges in his back and legs. He wasn't ready to go back to running through alleys and skulking over rooftops just yet. Heck, the day herding sheep in to be sheered had been draining enough.

Master Bunnymund's offer was looking more and more attractive, all the time.

He just didn't know...

"I know how it is," his father said. "C'mon, son. Let's get back, have our supper. Been a long day for you."

The sheep weren't going anywhere. Jackson looked the small herd over one last time, and nodded. They were in the big pasture. Wolves hadn't been a problem for longer than he'd been born. The dogs were being left on guard duty. The weather was good, the ewes had all dropped their lambs by now, and his hips were aching something fierce.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go home."

His father was kind enough not to mention the hobbling. And his mother held off fussing, for the evening at least.

Jackson ended up stretched out in a bed he didn't have to share with his sister, now that she was all grown up and betrothed to the miller's son next village over. How had that happened? And for that matter, why? Last he remembered, the boy in question was still all over spots, with ears like jug handles and teeth that rightly belonged to a mule.

Maybe he'd grown into himself? Jackson sighed, and turned over onto his side. As long as the boy treated his sister right, he supposed he could tolerate _almost_ anything.

Being home felt strange. As though his skin was too tight for the rest of him. The village was so small, the people so narrow minded. The tension with the governor didn't bother him the way it did everyone else, because he'd seen so much _more_ than these people could possibly imagine. As far as anyone in the village knew, he'd gone off to New York to work in an office, come back because he'd been injured, and would be going right back to whatever his job was supposed to be once he'd healed up enough.

It would have been strange, except Father had 'done the same' when he was young. "Go out, make some money, then come home and settle down" was how the priest had put it.

Sleep was slow in coming, but when it arrived, he grabbed for it with both hands.

His mother woke him up before dawn with her puttering in the kitchen. Jackson yawned, stumbled his way half-asleep through his morning absolutions, and then headed out the door to feed the dogs guarding the sheep.

Master Bunnymund was leaning on the fence when he got there.

_(Well,_ hello _there handsome...)_

Jackson admired the picture Master Bunnymund made, a warrior at his ease, barely illuminated by the sun just starting to peek up over the horizon. Gray fur was turned silver and black, and everything about Master Bunnymund spoke of a perfect knowledge of his surroundings.

"Sir," he said, and began tossing loaves of the special, meat-studded bread to the dogs. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Just seeing how you are," Master Bunnymund said. One of the dogs growled at the overgrown rabbit. Master Bunnymund growled in return, and chuffed when the dog's ears immediately went back, and it whined in submission. "These puppies aren't very brave."

"These puppies don't have to do more than run off foxes," Jackson said dryly. "And I don't think they'd know what to do with a rabbit if they caught it. Let alone know how to chase it. They're used to sheep."

The dogs settled in to their meal, but Jackson stayed where he was. He could keep Master Bunnymund company, for a _few_ minutes at least.

The sun had turned everything golden when Master Bunnymund turned to look at him. "Made a decision yet?"

A decision. God, how could he possibly make this choice? "You're sure it would leave me... human?"

"Of course. Wouldn't offer if it'd change you." Master Bunnymund smiled fondly, and rested one hand on Jackson's shoulder. "Bit too used to you as you are, ya daft hoon."

Jackson smiled back, and then looked away. "I, well. Sir. What, exactly, would...?"

"I dunno what kind of powers you'd get." Master Bunnymund's smile was small. Sad. "I got... my tunnels, my healing, among... other things. Couple other people... fire. Water. One poor man can talk to the dead, but they near about worship him, so it's safe enough. But it wouldn't change _you_ , Jackson. Just what you can do."

But wouldn't that change who he was, too? Jackson shook his head. What would be, would be, as was the will of God. "Anything else?"

"If you consent..." Master Bunnymund hesitated. "Your life could be... extended. Couple thousand years."

Jackson shook his head, almost desperately. "No. No! Sir, I- Aster. Powers, I could accept. But... to outlive everyone? My parents, my sister, her children... _my_ eventual wife and children? I couldn't!"

Master Bunnymund flinched. "Right. Right. That's... well. It was an option, is all." He looked away. "Heal up. I'll be back in two weeks."

"Sir?" Jackson turned to watch Master Bunnymund head into the forest. "Bring the Apple. When you do. I'll wield powers, but I won't extend my life."

"You've made that clear," Master Bunnymund said, and then vanished into a tunnel.

* * *

"Jack..."

I hit the punching bag as hard as I could, and then backed off a step. _Spinning back kick_... Thought was precursor to action, by a bare second. The bag rocked back and forth, chain clinking, from the force of the blow.

My ankle hurt.

"That... idiot!" I spat, seething. Closed minded, blind, old-fashioned, straight brained dick-face! I punched the bag again, hard enough that even with the wrappings, I felt the skin over my knuckles split and bleed.

"Jack, that's enough!" Hands caught me by the wrist, and I almost threw Tooth into a wall.

Almost. I stopped myself, muscles burning at the aborted movement, and clenched my teeth against the rage that wanted to spew out on her. She didn't deserve it.

_Overland_ deserved it. Deserved to have his mealy-mouthed little ass kicked, his scrawny little arms broken in three places- _each_ \- and his stupid head kicked in.

"Sorry," I growled, and stepped away.

Right into the punching bag, as it swung back.

The floor was kind of hard. Not the sort of thing a guy was going to enjoy falling on.

I pushed myself up until I was sitting, still half-splattered on the ground. "Tooth? Never, _ever_ grab me like that."

"Got it," she whispered, and swallowed hard. "Okay. You've been in here for hours, Jack. Enough is enough."

"He hurt Bunny!"

Tooth scowled at me, and then-

Then she grabbed me by the ear, and _pulled_.

"So that means you should be in here, working yourself to exhaustion?" She gave a light tug to my poor ear. "Shower. Food. Talk. In that order. Do I make myself clear?"

"Ma'am yes ma'am."

* * *

Jackson urged the sheep along. One of the dogs kept pace at his heels, while the other two ranged further ahead, to either side of the placid herd. The wet grass soaked his trousers to the knee, and was pleasantly cool against his bare feet. His arms felt strangely light, the way they had for most of his time back at home. No hidden blades against his wrists.

Just the shepherd's staff. If he hadn't had training in pole arms and staff weapons, it might have made him... twitchy.

Of course, in this part of the country, there wasn't anything more dangerous than the odd poisonous snake, the occasional bear, and a few men who didn't listen when a woman said _'no'_. And he could handle any of those without-

A woman was screaming.

Jackson took off without thinking about it. He might not have given the dogs orders, even, though he remembered shouting _something_. His injuries, mostly healed or not, protested the speed he forced from his body.

He jumped over a half-hidden log, and dove into the forest.

Forget the trails. He tore straight through the underbrush, leaving a trail a baby could have followed. He ducked the odd tree branch, and pressed himself to the utmost.

He covered more distance, in less time, than he'd done during training races.

Jackson burst out into a sudden clearing, and took in the situation in an instant. Woman- on the ground. Man standing over woman, looking threatening. Second man, on the ground, bleeding heavily from a wound somewhere chest-area. Second man, third man, further back, one with crossbow, one with longbow. Bows were faster and more accurate than the gun the first man had.

Right then.

Jackson let the staff slide down in his hands until he held it by the crook. Then he whipped it in a quick circle around his head. He was still running. By the time he brought the staff back around, full speed, he was close enough the end hit the man with the gun in the head.

There was a sharp crack of breaking bone, and the man fell.

He jumped over the collapsing body, staff sliding through his hands again until he held it in the middle. The two men with bows were just turning to face him, eyes wide with shock and no little fear.

He landed on the ground hard, and then sprang back into the air, aiming for the man with the longbow. A good longbow man could get ten arrows off in as many seconds, full power, with aiming. Crossbows took longer to reload.

Jackson kicked the longbow man in the stomach, and followed that up by yanking on his shirt and spinning them both around a central axis. Just in time. The crossbow bolt punched halfway through the longbow man's chest. The man made a horrible sound, and clutched at the bolt. Jackson let him drop.

It took less time to finish off the crossbow man than it'd taken to do the longbow man.

All in all, three minutes, from entering the clearing to stepping away from the last corpse.

"Are you bleeding?" he demanded of the woman, even as he threw himself down beside the fallen man.

"No," she said. After far too long of a second, she joined him at the man's side. "Tell me what to do."

Well. This was no fragile blossom. Jackson glanced up, and even with the man's life bleeding out under his hands, he realized he was looking at one of the most beautiful women to have ever been born.

"Ah," he said, and blinked several times. "We should be trying to save this man's life?"

"Oh, yes," she said. Her lips curved upwards at the corners, but no one could ever mistake that expression as a smile. "Nicholas St. North is a dear friend of mine, the only reason I am alive. Please. Save him."

Jackson nodded, and set to doing just that.

The wound wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Most of the blood came from a deep cut on the arm, easy to stop with a quick tourniquet. Jackson's estimation of the woman went up when she tore strips from her skirt without his asking, for bandages. The long cut across the man's chest was shallower, and already clotting here and there.

"What caused this?" he asked. No blade, that was for certain.

"A bullet," the woman said. She sounded bitter, but looked sad. "He flinched back when it went through his arm, that is how he's lived this long. Is there aught else you can do for him?"

Jackson considered both wounds. The one across the chest would be easy enough, even for him, but the arm... "Not I," he said, finally. "But I know people who can."

"The Assassins?" she asked. When Jackson looked up, hand going for a knife at his hip that he didn't have, she not-smiled again. "Of course I know what you are. You slew three Knights Templar in as many minutes. And," she added, inclining her head very slightly, "My father told me of your people."

"Your... father?" Jackson asked, somewhat dumbly.

The woman took a deep breath, and visibly composed herself. "My name is Seraphina," she said. "And I request sanctuary from the Assassins. I am running from my father.

"His name is Pitch Black, leader of the Knights Templar."

* * *

I ran one hand back through my hair, and sat down at the table. "Tooth, this really isn't-"

"Eat," she said, and pointed at the vegetarian lasagna on my plate.

Well, since it was there... I set to shoveling it in. My anger had died down, as I suspected had been Tooth's plan. Now I just felt tired and a little sad. It just wasn't fair! Bad enough I was stuck in this situation, worse that Tooth and Baby Tooth were suffering along with me. But couldn't I get just a _little_ something? Was it _really_ too much to ask, for Overland to have kissed Bunny _once_?

No. Of course not. Instead I had to watch while my ancestor destroyed Bunny's hope.

I stabbed a noodle, and chewed with unhealthy vigor. Stupid Overland. Stupid, oblivious Overland.

"This crush," Tooth said, once I was done. "It's not healthy, Jack."

"What crush?" I asked, stalling for time. I danced the fork tines over the plate. "I don't have a crush on anyone."

"Oh no?" She frowned at me. "You like the Pooka!"

"His name's Bunny!"

Tooth raised her eyebrows, and I winced, silently conceding the argument. "Okay. Maybe a little crush."

"You were beating the heavy bag up because...?"

"Bunny's in love with Overland." I took a deep breath, even though it hurt. Like shards of broken ribs pressing into my lungs. "Overland... the thought that one man might feel romantic feelings towards another man has never even occurred to him. Even when his sister was joking with him about it! Just curiosity and idleness, that's all it could be to him."

Tooth patted the back of my hand. "Are you upset because of his attitude, or...?"

"Bunny was hurt. Jackson was going on about his future wife and children, and... I could see Bunny's hopes and dreams go crash and burn, you know?" I shoved my empty plate away. "I wanted to punch the asshole in the face, which... Well. Probably why I got knocked out."

"Probably," she agreed, and took the plate over to the dishwasher. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

Tooth frowned at me. "You have a crush on a humanoid rabbit. Who's... old."

My jaw dropped, and my thought scattered to the four winds. After a bit of effort, I collected them all back together. "Uh. Well. The age thing doesn't... He doesn't _act_ old. Didn't. _Didn't_ act old. Well, Australian, actually, but not old, unless you count the three hundred years in the past thing."

Which... damn. Old rabbit. What were the chances Aster had survived to the current day and age? No matter how powerful he was, I figured it was pretty much a sure thing he hadn't. Survived, that is. Surely someone would have noticed a six foot tall humanoid rabbit walking around. Even in, say, Australia, land of the "Oh my god what _is_ that eh never mind."

Tooth was looking at me oddly. "Right," she said. I wondered if I'd babbled my reasoning out, like I sometimes did before waking up all the way. "But he could be thousands of years old. You don't think that's even slightly off putting?"

"No," I admitted. "Like I said, Tooth, he doesn't act it. He's always been very firmly in the here and now, at least in Overland's memories."

Complete with a mortal's understanding of time and punctuality.

"Well," she said, "he's still a humanoid rabbit."

"A Pooka," I corrected her. "Alien. Not a rabbit at all."

"Jack, you have a crush on an animal."

"I do not!" I didn't. Really. "Tooth, for the- he's not. He's intelligent. He's adult. He can consent. And sentience, consent, and age are the three big important things required for anyone who intends to have sex with an alien species. The British show with the box thing said so."

"Doctor Who?"

"Uh... Yeah, with the sex obsessed guy," I said, after I raked my brain for the man's name and couldn't remember.

"Jack, Torchwood is hardly-"

"Well!" I spread my hands. "He's not a rabbit. He's got fingers and thumbs, eyes face forward like a human's, tool use and creativity, language, and I probably would've fallen for him faster if he'd been human, but I'd still have fallen for him."

Okay, so a bit garbled, but that wasn't important. She got my meaning.

In fact, Tooth went pale, and sat down. "You've fallen in love with him?"

I opened my mouth, intending to deny, deny, deny, and then... couldn't. "Yeah," I whispered, once I'd struggled with myself for a bit. "I guess I have."

Crap. Love. That was even worse than a crush, even a severe crush. Love meant broken hearts and what other ending could there be? Aster was probably dead.

Tooth patted my hand again. "You're sure he's not an animal?" she asked. "Even a smart one?"

"Very." No one with eyes that intelligent and kind could be an animal. Just wasn't possible.

She sighed. "Well. He has those Apples. He told Jackson it can extend his life, didn't he?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah...?"

"Well." Tooth spread her hands. "He must be using them to extend his own life. Otherwise how could he lead the Assassins? And who would Pitch be fighting against?"

Oh. Oh! Oh, yeah! I grinned. "So. Now I've got... three good reasons to escape."

"Three?" she asked.

I held up three fingers. "One," I said, touching the first finger. "To spit in Pitch's eye. Two," second finger, "Disney World. And three," third finger, "To _finally_ kiss Bunny." I paused, and added, "Actually, Bunny's most important, Pitch is least."

Tooth laughed at me. "At least you have your priorities straight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun... The plot thickens! Jack's in love, Jackson's met a woman, North is here, Sandy will show up soon (I know, he's late... as usual...)
> 
> Unfortunately, I forgot to write my buffer chapters, so hello weekend of LOTS of writing!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for being forced to watch-slash-live through your ancestor having sex.

Jackson poured a wooden cup full of water, and offered it to the lady. "Here," he said. "It's fresh."

"Thank you." Seraphina's fingers were pale and soft-looking, a complete contrast to Jackson's own, tanned and calloused as they were. Cleaned, and in borrowed clothing without stains and tears, Seraphina was not merely beautiful. She was radiant. Her hair, red-gold in color, was piled carelessly atop her head in a messy pompadour, with lengths of hair too short to be tied up curling in a fetching manner at the nape of her neck and around her ears. Somehow, in a way Jackson wasn't sure of, the hairstyle only emphasized the clarity of her pale skin, which was like a white rose's petals.

He could have dwelled forever on her high brow and refined profile, her neck, neither too long nor too short, but just the right length and graceful besides. He could have mused over her long, slender fingers, and how she carried herself as though a demure queen. He could even have covertly eyed the modest swell of her bosom and the narrowness of her waist- a narrowness that owed nothing to a corset, as she had not been given one- but he did not.

It was, in truth, her eyes that caught him. They remained no one color, but swirled, moment to moment, through all the shades of metal and gemstone.

Seraphina caught the direction of his attention. How could she not? She blushed, a faint tinge of pink to her cheeks, and pressed the fingers of one hand against the skin under one eye. "Ah. These."

"I don't mean to be rude," Jackson said.

"But you cannot help but wonder." She looked away, the perfect image of a saddened noblewoman, too graceful to make a display out of her sorrow. "You know my father."

"You told me, yes." Pitch Black. Master Bunnymund had confirmed it; it was why Seraphina was technically a prisoner.

"You are aware that he has two of the Apples?"

"Two?" They had known of the one, but two?

Seraphina nodded. "Two of the six, yes. One grants him control over minds- if he knew how to use it!" Her laugh was somehow terribly sad, countering the joyful sound. "He has struggled for centuries to learn how to use it, without simply inciting a killing rage in all around him. The other..." She studied her fingertips.

"The other?" Jackson asked.

"Physical manipulation. Plant, animal... human." She sighed, and looked up at him. "I was his favored choice for _those_ experiments."

Jackson blinked, and then very carefully reached over and rested one hand over Seraphina's. "How so?" he asked.

Two tears rolled down Seraphina's cheeks, one after the other. "When I was young, he... I had siblings, once. But they- he-" She choked off, and pressed her lips tight together. "I am the only of his children, now. I owe my survival to Nicholas. He has ever been my friend."

Jackson licked his lips. "He cannot get you here," he promised her.

She sighed, and inclined her head, though not as if she believed him. "As you say. But, in answer to your question... I have some small gift for manipulating plants. It is more reliable than his use of the Apple. And, too, over animals- training his guard dogs and horses is what he had me doing for most of my life, since I acquired that gift. I can also call metal ores to the surface, though it is a trial to me and I am worthless for days after."

"You are _not_ worthless." Jackson took her hands in both of his. "Seraphina, I swear to you, you are safe from him. I will help protect you. Aster- he is a good man, he will not turn you out."

She bowed her head. "You are a good man. And I know not even your name."

"I am Jackson Overland."

"Jackson," she said, and his name sounded musical in her voice. She smiled. "Thank you."

He flushed, and stood up. "I- you'll have to stay here, but there's no reason- books, perhaps, and something to eat? And I'll- I'll just... go. And see to your friend. The healers have him, he'll be fine. Just... stay here."

It was a wonder he didn't trip over his own two feet leaving the room, but he stayed upright throughout his hasty exit. Jackson grabbed a passing Assassin- it didn't matter who- and told the young man to guard the door, and not let anyone but himself or Master Bunnymund in or out.

Then he hurried away to the healer's wing.

Once there, he found one of the healers, who was able to tell him the good news. Seraphina's Nicholas would make a full recovery; he wouldn't even lose any mobility in his arm, though the scars would forever after get him free drinks in nearly every bar and tavern. Jackson nodded his thanks, and hurried back, suddenly as eager to return to the lady as he'd been in a hurry to leave.

The young Assassin looked relieved to see him, and assured him no one had tried to enter or leave the room. As they were on the third story and the window was barred, Jackson felt it safe to say Seraphina had stayed in the room.

She had stayed, though not exactly in the same spot. She had moved to look out the window, apparently admiring the view.

"Do you know where we are?" she asked.

"I don't. We're in one of the conclaves, I know that much. Perhaps Greece?" It was certainly warm enough, or so some of the senior assassins said.

She nodded, and turned to face him. "Nicholas?"

"He's doing well. The healers say he will make a full recovery." Jackson hesitated, and then asked, "What is he to you, Seraphina?"

"To me?" She didn't look confused, thankfully. "A friend. A good one. A protector, who kept the men nearest to my- to Pitch- away from me. He is as a brother, Jackson."

"Ah." Why was that such a relief?

Seraphina moved away from the window. "Thank you. For finding out."

Jackson held out one hand to the lady. "It was no hardship. The healers are only two floors down."

"Only?" she repeated, smiling. She took his hand. "All the same. _Thank you_."

Jackson hesitated, and then reached up and brushed a tendril of hair from her brow. "I'd not have you worry over something so easy to fix," he said.

It was something of an odd experience, to have a woman look down at him. _That_ hadn't happened since before his last growth. Yet Seraphina was a full head taller than he was, perhaps even a little more, so she was forced to look down and he was forced to look up. Unless he wanted to look straight ahead and down into her cleavage, that was.

Certainly she was not unaware of where his eyes _wanted_ to wander, completely independent of manners and good sense. Seraphina smiled at him, and then chuckled.

"Did I thank you for the rescue, earlier?" she asked.

"Thanks are not necessary."

She tilted her head to the side; he found himself studying the gentle arch of her neck. "No, I don't believe I did. And necessary or not..."

Seraphina was getting closer. Jackson's eyes widened, but he didn't pull away.

"... I want to," she whispered, and pressed her lips to his.

The first kiss was gentle, and sweet, like the first pure drop of water from a melting icicle. The second was only a little more forceful.

The third set his blood afire and he clutched the woman to him, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair, the other pressed tight to the small of her back. Seraphina gasped against his mouth, and when he would have pulled away, she clutched at his shoulders.

"No," she whispered. "Please."

Well, it would be churlish to refuse a lady, now wouldn't it?

Jackson pulled back long enough to get a breath, and then dove back in. It was surprisingly easy to unlace her bodice, so that the fabric covering her shoulders slipped away.

"You are beautiful," he said.

Seraphina smiled, and backed away several steps, towards the bed. "Show me," she requested.

So he did.

* * *

I threw myself out of the Animus before the lid had fully opened, barking shoulder and hip against the edge. "Bucket!"

Tooth, bless her, didn't ask questions. She just shoved a wastebasket into my face.

And then I lost my lunch. And breakfast. And last night's dinner, and on through various meals to the first one I'd ever _had_ at this loony bin.

"Jack?" Tooth rubbed one hand between my shoulder blades. "What happened?"

Good question. I spat into the wastebasket. Next question. "Where do we keep the brain bleach?"

"Brain- We don't have any."

"We... _Why not_? We've got a freaky machine, El Psycho McPsycho Pants with the shadow dicks of doom-"

Tooth mouthed the words 'shadow dicks of doom', looking fairly stunned.

"- _and_ we've got a universal remote control. Why _don't_ we have _brain bleach_?"

"Be...cause... alcohol?" she offered.

I stopped spitting into the trash can. "Now?" I asked hopefully.

"No. Not now. What happened?" Tooth gestured wildly, managing to get the Animus, me, and the rather full trashcan in one swing of the hand.

"My ancestor violated my mind," I whined.

I'd read the books and been unable to entirely avoid the porn or the prostitutes on the streets, but I hadn't been that eager to know what straight sex was like. Actually, I really hadn't wanted to know. Nothing against women or the propagation of the species, but- no. Not for me. It all seemed rather dubious, honestly. Not a fair trade sort of thing at all.

At least if two gay guys were getting it on, they could switch who was bottoming and who was topping, depending on how they felt and what they wanted. That was fair, in my opinion.

Not that I'd ever had sex before, but still. Opinions. I had them.

"Violated...?" Tooth took the wastebasket from me, made a face, and then used the intercom system- straight out of the sixties, if they'd had intercoms then- to summon a guard for clean up.

"Jack, how could Overland's memories possibly have violated you in any way, shape or form?"

I made a face as I sat up. "Let me brush my teeth and gargle with a gallon of mouth wash. Then I'll answer."

"Don't forget to floss."

Five minutes of oral care later, I returned to the living room. The apartment was now vomit-bucket free, and Tooth smirked when I raised my eyebrows in silent question. So, a squeamish guard. I was sorry to have missed it.

"Did you know Pitch had a daughter?" I asked.

"I- no. No one ever mentioned that to me."

I wrinkled my nose. "Well, he does, or did anyways." Three hundred years, Jack. Sans Apple- and I really couldn't see Bunny extending Seraphina Black's life any- humans lived a century if they were lucky. "She seduced Overland."

Tooth raised her eyebrows. "Seduced?"

"Okay, so she put it in the way of 'thanks for saving my life' but trust me. She was pretty blatant about it."

"And I'm sure you've seen a lot of manipulation before."

"Actually, yeah." Cruder than what Seraphina had pulled, but there was plenty of it on the streets. "But when I say blatant, think... Oh, soap opera levels of subtlety. Being all refined and sad and in need of protecting, just the kind of woman that'd make Overland pant at her heels like a dog."

Tooth shook her head. "And she had sex with him?"

I grimaced, and did my best not to think about it. "Yeah. Extra-blatant there. I get that she wants protected. Wanted. But- why did she have to seduce _my_ ancestor?"

Tooth opened her mouth, paused, and then looked disturbed. "You don't think she's the one who...?"

Seraphina as my many-times great-grandmother? "No," I said. "Hell no. Retroactively no. Reality will not let this happen, that is too horrible to be real. No!"

"I don't think the timing would be right, anyways," Tooth assured me. "But- I still don't understand, why would you have that kind of reaction...?"

I rubbed my forehead. Good question. Next question? No? Still stuck on this one? Great. "I think... Well, for one thing, Tooth, I'm gay. I am gayer than a flaming fruit basket that's been tossed into the sun. _I fart rainbows_."

It got a laugh, at least.

"Sure, I'm manly with it," I continued, and struck a pose. Tooth laughed even more. Yeah, okay, five-foot-four and still scrawny as a muscular toothpick. Manly poses were not my best appearance. "But still. I think the puking was because I was trying to disengage the entire time, and for some reason... couldn't."

I shivered. I'd been trapped, stuck behind Overland's eyes, forced to watch everything, hear every sigh and moan, _feel_ every... I shivered again, but for a different reason. There was a difference between physical reaction and actual desire. I knew that. Pleasurable touch was pleasurable touch was pleasurable touch, and the body was going to react to it. And it had been strangely... good... for Overland, at least.

For me, the sensations of pleasurable touch had mixed with my absolute lack of desire and borderline horror. I had to wonder- it wasn't rape, not even close. But it seemed pretty close to me.

It had not been helped any by my awareness of Seraphina. Overland hadn't realized, but she hadn't been enjoying herself. It'd been a form of work, near as I could tell. Seduce Overland, have sex with him, he'd be indebted to her in a way. She'd be able to stay with the Assassins, or at least have Overland in her corner, and be safe from her father.

I sighed, and sat down on the couch next to Tooth. "So yeah. Bazooka barfing. Fun times."

She patted my shoulder. "You don't have to go back in."

"If I don't, I'll dread it until tomorrow morning." I clenched my jaw. "Besides. I know the worst is yet to come. Might as well get it over with."

"Interesting way of looking at it," Tooth said, and went to start the Animus back up.

* * *

Jackson nuzzled against the soft skin of Seraphina's jaw, and sighed happily. Then froze. "Uh," he said, and sat up. And promptly clapped both hands over his groin, while doing his best not to stare at the expanse of feminine flesh revealed by his abrupt movement. "That was very improper of me."

The lady seemed entirely unbothered by how much of her was revealed. "Was it? I certainly didn't mind." Her smile was the lazy, self-satisfied look of a pleased cat.

"All the same." Where had his clothes gone? Where had _hers_? And _how_ had he lost _complete_ leave of his senses?

Seraphina was Pitch Black's _daughter_. Just because she _said_ she was running from him didn't mean she _was_. She could have killed him at any point during their- their...

Jackson's blood made a valiant attempt at heading south and staying there, even though his jacko was much too tired for another salute. He found his trousers, and held them in front of his waist like the feeble shield it was.

Someone thumped once on the door, and then walked in.

He didn't want to look. He didn't. Yet, completely against his will, he turned and looked.

Master Bunnymund stood in the doorway, and his eyes went from Jackson, to Seraphina in the bed, a sheet pulled up as though to preserve her modesty. There was something very like pain in his eyes; Jackson knew it was his fault. He'd forgotten one of the most important tenants of the Assassins: don't sleep with the enemy.

"Well," Master Bunnymund said. "Enjoy yourselves?"

_(Oh, no... Bunny...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who here wants to lynch Overland? -Jack holds up both hands- Who here is sad Overland's dead so he can't be lynched? -Jack lies down on his back so he can hold up both hands and feet-


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"I'm sorry, sir. That was... stupid of me." Jackson trailed after Master Bunnymund, shoulders hunched and head down. "I'll accept whatever punishment you devise."

"Will you?" Master Bunnymund sighed, shook his head, and gestured towards the headquarters' lake. "Never mind. It'd take a stronger will than yours to turn away a lady in need like that. Can't hardly blame you for giving her what comfort you could."

That made him sound much better than he was. Jackson had taken advantage of that poor woman. The only consolation was that she hadn't been virgin; that much, at least, was not upon his head. "Even so. We only have her word for things, and I-"

"You're punishing yourself far more for that than I ever could." Master Bunnymund sat down on the sandy bank, and looked out over the water. He looked sad, Jackson realized. Old and tired and sad.

"Bad news?"

Master Bunnymund looked up at him. "Hm?"

"You look like you got bad news." Jackson, after a moment's hesitation, sat down as well. "Anything I can help with?"

Master Bunnymund laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No. I did get some bad news, but it's something I've been expecting. Just... Nothing you can do about it."

"If there's anything..." Greatly daring, Jackson rested a hand on Master Bunnymund's shoulder. "Well, if."

"I'll keep you in mind." The head Assassin stretched his legs out. "When do you want to get your powers?"

"My- after what I just-" Jackson gestured back towards the building. "You're still trusting me with this?"

"One mistake doesn't make you untrustworthy. And I..." Aster shook his head. "I'll have Sanderson look her over. He's better than I am with truth and falsehood. He'll know, if anyone would, if she's telling the truth."

"You've mentioned him before. But... I don't think anyone's met him, other than you."

Master Bunnymund nodded. "He helped me found the Assassins. Keeps me in check when my temper gets the best of me. But he's mute, so he finds it easier to stay in the background."

Jackson wondered what Sanderson looked like. Like Master Bunnymund? _That_ would be interesting.

* * *

The truth was far different. Master Sanderson was made out of _sand_. Or looked like it; his hair had a suspicious grainy texture to it, as did his skin, and there was certainly no doubt that his clothing was of golden sand as well. He communicated, if you could call it that, by means of something called 'dreamsand', which he was able to form into a myriad of different shapes. It was rather like the game of charades Jackson had learnt about, from the other Assassins.

And he floated.

Of all the differences between Master Sanderson and everyone else, that one was the strangest, to Jackson's mind.

Master Sanderson floated so his eyes were level with Jackson's; without that, he would have been two feet shorter, for all that Jackson was barely five feet and a half in height. He stared into Jackson's eyes, and the sand-shapes flew by at a bewildering speed.

Jackson looked over at Master Bunnymund for translation.

"He wants to test you first," Master Bunnymund said, voice tight and grim. "Won't agree to you touching the Apple without that."

"Alright." How? Jackson couldn't understand Master Sanderson.

Master Sanderson smirked, as if he'd heard the question and found it hilarious.

Then he reached up and pressed his hand to Jackson's forehead.

* * *

I tried several times to relive what Jackson saw when the sand-man put him under, but couldn't. After my fifth try, which ended with Jackson waking up and touching the Apple- which looked more like one of those hovering orb things Luke Skywalker used to train in the first Star Wars- Tooth put her foot down and told me to cut it out.

* * *

Jackson knocked on Seraphina's door, and entered at her quiet bid. "So. How did it go?"

Seraphina smiled at him. "I am allowed to stay, and with minimal guards. And they are for my safety, not to jail me."

"That is good news indeed." He stayed in the doorway, suddenly conscious of the fingerprints-in-frost he'd left on the door post.

"You've touched one of the Apples."

"Yes. Ice, snow." He formed a snowflake above his palm, and then tossed it to her. She caught it, and hissed. "Sorry. They're painfully cold."

A weapon. One he'd been practicing with as much as he safely could, with Master Bunnymund and Master Sanderson helping in their spare time.

He'd also taken the time to meet Nicholas St. North, once he was awake. A more odious man Jackson had never met, at least not without killing him. Nicholas was a Templar to the bone; as stubborn and inflexible as a rock, utterly convinced enslaving humans was not only a necessary evil but mandated by God, convinced that Assassins were demons in human shape.

He'd been quite put out, waking up in the Assassin's headquarters, owing his life to an Assassin. Likely only Seraphina's word had kept him from trying to wreak havoc. As it was, he'd retreated to the room he'd been given, and snarled at everyone but the lady he followed.

"Come in," Seraphina said. She gestured to one of the graceful chairs; she sat in the other.

"Are you sure?"

She smiled at him. "I promise not to bite, Jackson. Unless you want me to."

Jackson blushed, and then flushed at the strange feeling of ice crawling over his cheeks. He'd have to get that under control before Master Bunnymund let him back out among the population at large. Seraphina chuckled, and he bowed to the inevitable. It felt good to sit down. He'd been up and running around since just before dawn, working at his control.

The ice daggers were useful, but creating them made his head ache something fierce.

"Nicholas told me you'd been to see him."

Jackson nodded. "He was incredibly rude."

Seraphina flicked her fingers, as though flicking St. North's ill manners away. "He was raised by bandits. No, I tell you true," she said, at his doubtful look. "My father found him, oh, twenty years ago? A good thing, too, the bandits had abandoned him to die of an infected wound."

Jackson nodded. "Seraphina, could you tell me anything about your father?"

She looked away. "I know what he's done, how horrible he is... But you have to understand. He's still my father. As much as he tormented me, there would be times..."

Jackson sighed, and bowed his head. "Very well. Then I suppose my next question is, when will you leave your room? People need to get used to seeing you."

For a moment, her expression was pure calculation. "Would you stay with me?" He frowned. "It is only... I know you, Jackson. And Master Bunnymund, of course, but..." She held her hand out to him. "I trust you."

She did? She did! Jackson's heart warmed, and he took her hand. "In that case... what about dinner tonight, with everyone else?"

"As long as you are by my side, I can handle anything," she promised.

* * *

It was a good thing I'd learnt how to 'fast forward' through things like sleep and _extremely dull_ activities. I put it to good use, zipping through Overland's fumbling at control, and Seraphina seducing him every chance she got.

Weirdly, the more she vamped him, the less attached he seemed to be. A month- for me, for him it'd been two years- later, and they weren't sleeping together at all. Seraphina no longer had any guards, though 'for her safety' she wasn't to leave the bounds of the Assassin's Headquarters. Jackson had been and gone, visiting his elderly parents, helping Bunny or other Assassins with, well, assassinations, and otherwise staying active.

Tooth kept an eye on me. Apparently, by this point all the previous subjects had tipped over the edge. Pitch showed up as well, and seemed intrigued by my sanity.

And then annoyed when I apologized for Jackson doing his daughter for two years.

At least he didn't throw me into any walls, that time.

I continued my visits to Baby Tooth, who loved my stories- heavily edited- of Overland and Bunny. We made plans for Disney World, Disney Land, and Disney everything. She had me help write letters to Tooth, and then made me read Tooth's letters back.

It was as ideal as it could be, considering the situation. I continued to put on weight, so that instead of looking starved I just looked skinny. My reflexes continued to the point that I'd started running katas in one of the empty apartments, running through the moves that Overland had learnt so 'long' ago.

The 'years' continued. Overland got into fights with North on a frequent basis, generally whenever they crossed paths. Bunny kept North company quite a bit, talking with him, which seemed to annoy Overland. I had no idea why; it wasn't like Overland was interested in either man. Which was a shame, because Bunny... yeah.

My crush on the alien continued unabated, until there was no way to deny what I felt was love. Love, with a healthy helping of lust. Sure, the fur was a bit weird, but it was like what I'd told Tooth. If he'd been human, I'd have fallen faster.

As it was, I dreamed of, and fantasized about, clever hand-paws touching me, sliding over my chest and stomach and then cupping my balls and dick in one hand. I dreamed of furry lips pressing against my own, a long, rough tongue tangled with mine before blunt, buck teeth clamped down on my shoulder to hold me in place. I imagined what it would be like to be fucked- to be crude about it- by an alien, one that looked like a rabbit. Did Bunny even _have_ a dick like a human, or a rabbit? Or were his nether bits even stranger? Tentacles? A probe of some kind? My imagination did its best, and of all the 'options' my brain came up with, there wasn't a single thing that made me want to stop thinking about it.

I was stupid in love with Bunny, and it wasn't getting better.

I held tight to Tooth's observation that Bunny was probably alive today. No guarantee, but probably was better than 'not a chance in hell', so I'd take it.

By the third month, I was well into the end of a decade of memories. Overland was nearing his thirties, but whatever the Apple had done meant he wasn't slowing down any. Tooth said I was finally at a healthy weight, but continued to tell Pitch that I was below the goal so I didn't have to spend all day in the Animus.

I also started a new hobby. I'd figured out the computer and the internet, and gotten annoyed by the censors editing what information I could get.

So, I went to porn sights. The weirdest, weirdest porn sights ever. Like the vore sites, with men and women done up like roasted pigs, stuffed with vegetables and waiting to be put into an oven or whatever.

There were cartoons, it was weird.

I also inflicted ghost-sex on them, as much gay sex as possible- I had no problems with it and tended to watch along with, although the plotlines were laughable and certain positions just seemed _painful_ \- and anything else I could find that would make any sane man squint in pain and cross his legs to protect the 'jewels'.

Tooth, when I told her what I was up to, helped.

According to the gossip I overheard while squirming through the vents, Pitch found out his men were watching porn at work. He flipped his lid. Certain security employees were knocked down to the bottom of the ladder. The best part was, not only did he not come up and yell at me and Tooth- apparently he thought they'd done the porn watching willingly, and hadn't let them explain- but we got a bit more freedom in our internet endeavors.

I immediately stopped watching crazy porn and researched tamer things, like how to make bombs with kitchen-handy materials.

Things continued as they did, both in my life and Overland's, through his sister's wedding and Baby Tooth losing a molar- and then making me climb through the ducts twice in one night so I could give it to her sister and bring back a quarter.

And then Overland lost his parents, and I gained yet another reason to want to go back in time and _kill him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Sandy, you're not a major character in this story. Neither is North, but I don't feel quite as bad about that, he's a Templar.
> 
> I'd write something oh so witty, but I was riding for the first time in ten years. Yay horses! No yay muscle cramps!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Tooth was glaring at me when I left the Animus, for the fifth time in ten minutes. "What?"

"You," she snapped. "You need to stop trying to kiss him."

I raised my eyebrows and spread my hands. "What? What? I thought we were in uncharted territory! He's drunk, it could happen!"

"It didn't, it won't, stop it. Entering and exiting causes the most strain-"

"Yes, Tooth, I know. I could have a heart attack. I could have a stroke. I could mutate into the next Spiderman and splat myself on a window. I know."

She smacked me upside the head. "Stop trying to kiss the rabbit."

"Alien called Pooka," I corrected, and moseyed over to the kitchen. There was water, fresh and cold and all mine. Tasted better than juice. At least, for someone who'd spent most of his years on the street.

"Fine. Just stop trying to kiss him."

I sipped from my glass, if only because an ice cream headache was nothing to sneeze at and painful as hell. "Tooth," I said, and leaned backwards against the counter. "Tooth. There are three main things I'd like to do before the end of the year. Kick Pitch in the nads, for all of us to escape this nuthouse, and kiss that alien rabbit on the lips and, if I'm lucky, all over his body." I paused for effect, and added, "The kissing is the most important part."

Tooth rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."

"Hey," I protested. I set the glass aside, the better to press a hand to my chest in fake hurt. "Hey, come on. I've got my priorities straight."

"Your priorities are going to end in a heart attack and a grave," she muttered.

"But oh, what a way to go," I replied.

Tooth started typing on the computer. "Take half an hour to adjust, and then get back here. We can at least do a few hours before its completely unsafe..."

* * *

Master Bunnymund took the bottle away. "Enough of this."

Jackson glared at the Master Assassin. "That's mine."

"Yes, it's yours, and I'm taking it away so you don't kill yourself. Drink anymore and we'll pour you into a coffin." Master Bunnymund did something complicated and tricky with the pantry and the door and the bottle, vanishing the alcohol like a fake magician. Jackson muttered something under his breath, not even he was quite sure what, and realized the room was swaying.

"Alright, mate." Strong hands caught him under the armpits, and lifted. "C'mon, bed for you. You'll hate yourself in the morning."

"Hate myself now," he said, or thought, or thought he said. Somebody said it, or thought it, or something. He didn't know. But it was true.

Master Bunnymund sighed, and held Jackson up while twitching the bedcovers down. "Right. Shirt off."

"No." Jackson grabbed at the hem of his shirt. He caught it on the third try. "No. She made it."

Master Bunnymund pulled it off, and then held it up out of reach when Jackson flailed after it. "You'll wreck it sleeping in it," he said. "Same with those trousers. I know you want to keep 'em close, so they'll go on the pillow right next to you."

Jackson stopped flailing, and half fell, half sat down on the bed. "Oh," he managed, after a minute. "Okay."

Master Bunnymund sighed, and folded the shirt up. Then he undid Jackson's belt, and pulled his trousers off. "I think we'll skip wrestling you into a nightgown," Master Bunnymund said. He helped Jackson lie down, so his head was on the pillows and his legs under the covers.

The room spun and danced around him, and he swallowed down the urge to vomit. Between one blink and the next, Master Bunnymund vanished and reappeared with a large, pottery bowl.

"If you need to spew, do it into this," he said. Another blink, and he vanished. Jackson blinked to make him reappear. "And here's some water to drink, when you feel up to living again."

Master Bunnymund tucked the blankets up over Jackson's shoulders, and ran his hand over the man's hair. "Ah, kid. I'm sorry."

Everyone was sorry. "They shouldn't have..." Jackson closed his eyes. He'd said the same thing, over and over, and he was sick and tired of it. They shouldn't have died. It was his fault. If he was tired of saying it, Master Bunnymund had to be tired of hearing it.

"I know, love," Master Bunnymund muttered. Something soft pressed against Jackson's forehead, and then the world vanished into grief and Uncle Wilson's cider, and the slow whirl of the room around his bed.

He didn't know how long he stayed in bed, drifting between asleep and drunk and miserable the entire time. He hadn't vomited, it seemed. By the hollow feeling in his stomach, it'd been at least a day. By the ache in his bones when he tried to move, it'd been at least two days.

The water pitcher was empty, so he must have drunk it dry at some point.

His bladder wanted to explode.

Jackson dragged himself out of bed, and stumbled through taking care of himself, up to the point where his options involved food or going back to sleep. The idea of food made him want to use that bowl next to the bed. The thought of sleep made him want to run away from the house, from the sheep that now belonged to him - who was taking care of the sheep? He didn't know, and honestly didn't care - and from the Assassins.

Just run, and leave it all behind.

Someone knocked on the door before he could decide. Jackson stared at the door, equal parts wary and annoyed, and just a little bit curious. No one in the village knocked; they'd just come right on in. Half of them were relatives anyway, and a full third of those relatives had a vague idea about the Assassins.

Probably less, after the winter. The old and young were the first to succumb to starvation and illness, after all.

Master Bunnymund didn't knock either, but his single visit after the funeral had been an anomaly, something that happened once and never again. Mostly because no one in the village _ever knocked_.

A stranger, he decided. He considered telling them to go away, but the door opened before he could speak.

It was Seraphina.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said.

"I came once I'd heard the news, and managed to browbeat Aster into setting me free." She sat down at the table as though she had a right to it, and rested one hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry, Jackson."

Sorry? "We haven't talked in over six months," he spat, hands clenching against the table's surface. "And you just come in here like you're expected? Like I _want_ to talk to you?"

She gave him a cool look, one clearly meant to show how unimpressed she was with his behavior. Jackson glared back, unimpressed and uncaring and how _dare_ she just come in here, come back into his life?

"Get out."

"Now Jackson-"

"No. Get the hell out of my house, Seraphina, right now or so I'll-"

A third person cleared their throat. Jackson cut off mid-word, and turned the full force of his ire on - on the woman in the doorway, who held a casserole dish as though she intended to throw it at his head. "What?"

"You're Overland, aren't you?" She didn't wait for him to respond, just shoved the dish in his direction. "Take it. It's food. You look like you haven't eaten for over a week."

Jackson took the dish, which was heavy and still warm from the oven, and blinked at the woman. She was as tall as Seraphina, but that was the only similarity, and she - she was leaving.

"Wait-"

"Bring the dish to the common store when you're done with it," she said, and strode out of sight.

Jackson turned around, to stare hopelessly at the entirety of the room. Seraphina glared at him, and then slowly stood up.

"I can see myself out," she snarled.

Jackson looked back down at the casserole dish, and studied the burnt offerings.

They were completely inedible.

* * *

Her name was Rebecca Morris, and she was some sort of cousin to Branson's nephew. She was seventeen, as tall as any man and without Seraphina's lush curves, and completely ordinary except for her inability to cook, sew, or adhere to general manners. She had hit a suitor over the head with her grandmother's marble rolling pin, which had led to her being sent to Burgess, and she seemed intent on continuing the practice in the village, as well.

She kept bringing Jackson inedible food.

"And I don't understand _why_ ," he admitted. The sheep didn't care. The dogs didn't care. Master Bunnymund made a sad, pained sound, and pinched the bridge of his... muzzle.

"Either she's trying to court you, or she's trying to kill you. Pick whichever option seems the less terrifying," Master Bunnymund said.

Jackson thought about it. "They're both terrifying. The one means she'll kill me by accident. The other means she's doing it on purpose."

"You're _eating_ the food?" Master Bunnymund said. He sounded aghast and amused, all at once. Jackson didn't appreciate either emotion, and said so. "Well, deal with it. You're eating the food?"

"So what if I am?" Jackson hunched his shoulders. "She's making an effort."

Master Bunnymund shook his head. "You got a death wish. I'd best get going. Things are getting interesting in Spain."

Weren't the wars over by now? "Anything new about Pitch?"

"Not yet. He can't hide forever, mate." He patted Jackson's shoulder, and then vanished down one of his tunnels.

As the summer went on, Rebecca continued to gift - or attack - Jackson with interestingly inedible food. Jackson continued to eat it anyways, because the compliments to her cooking always made her look... interesting. As though she was fighting back a strong desire to brain him with a rolling pin.

Jackson had no idea why that expression made him want to smile, to laugh, to sweep her up into his arms and start dancing.

Master Bunnymund said Jackson was clearly mad. If so, it was a beautiful kind of madness. Being around Rebecca, teasing her and eating the horrible food, made the pain of losing his parents (and too many aunts, uncles, and cousins for him to want to count) over the winter fade away. It didn't go away completely, but the prospect of teasing Rebecca some more got him out of bed most days.

Only as the days and weeks went by, getting up just to tease Rebecca stopped being the main reason. There was the flock to tend, with the lambs frolicking in the field and the dogs going about their work with single-minded focus. There were the neighbors to talk to and trade with. There were beautiful dawns and breathtaking dusks, and using his powers to keep his home from turning into a bake oven.

Ice powers were good for many things, not least of which involved freezing buckets of ice so they chilled the air in the kitchen. Jackson also went out and practiced in the woods, creating knives and daggers out of thin air, freezing the surface of the lake so he could walk and jump and shadowbox on the slick surface. He learnt how to freeze the morning dew so the fields were covered in frost, and confounded his nearest neighbors when he accidentally created piles and heaps of snow, in the middle of July.

Rebecca stopped scowling when he stopped by the general store to return the borrowed dishes, scrubbed clean enough to shine. Instead, she looked confused, at least until he went to work, teasing and complimenting and just _talking_ until she was smiling at him.

"Oh," Jackson said, midway through a sparring session with Master Bunnymund. There were few people left, among the Assassins, able to keep up with him now that he'd been enhanced by the Apple.

"Oh?" Master Bunnymund did something tricky and complicated with his quarterstaff. Jackson met the blows, iced the ground beneath their feet, and skated in a quick circle around the humanoid rabbit.

"I think I'm in love with Rebecca."

Master Bunnymund's expression went blank, and then he went on a full out offensive that made it hard to breathe, let alone talk, for several minutes.

He apologized, after. Jackson waved it off. They were Assassins; training was dangerous, because the real thing was worse.

By autumn, Rebecca smiled when she saw Jackson. And she wasn't his reason to get up out of bed in the morning; she was, however, what he thought about during the day, whether he was herding the sheep or practicing his fighting.

Or, occasionally, going out and doing something for the Assassins, now and again.

"Sunburn?" Rebecca asked. "It's been raining for a week."

"Actual burn," Jackson lied. Africa hadn't been raining. "I realize this is a bit forward, but would you have dinner with me?"

"That fond of my cooking?"

"I thought I'd take the chance to show off."

She smiled oddly. "Alright. Surprise me." She pointed at the door. "I'll be by this evening. And I'll be bringing my rolling pin."

Jackson's grin widened. "Yeah?" He backed up into the wall, stumbled forward a step, and made sure to hurry through the door while she laughed.

Master Bunnymund showed up while he was preparing the meal. "What's this?"

"Rabbit stew. My favorite. Rebecca's coming over, so I hope she likes it." Jackson worked the small knife under the fur, peeling carefully. A slit down the belly to gut it, edible organs set aside to be fried in the morning, they would keep on ice overnight... Head and feet cut off, he'd give them to the dogs... Skin wasn't worth anything, so he'd give that to the dogs too. What was left needed to be jointed, de-boned, and put into the pot to cook.

Master Bunnymund watched while Jackson went through the practiced motions, red-stained knife gleaming faintly.

Jackson cleaned up once he was done, organs set aside in the cellar to keep cool for the morning, the offal in a bucket for the dogs. "Was there something you wanted?" He wiped his hands off on a damp rag, and then cleaned up the table.

"What?" Master Bunnymund shook his head. "No, no. Your favorite, you said? I, ah, just stopped by to see how you were doing."

Jackson paused, and then threw the rag to the side, to join the rest of the dirty laundry. "I'm doing alright," he decided. He nodded. "Yeah. I'm doing alright."

"Then I'd better go. Your lady'll be by soon." Master Bunnymund nodded to him. "Goodbye, Jackson."

Jackson waved him off, and found a clean shirt for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack needs to stop telling me how much he hates Overland. Admittedly, he has reasons, but really, Jack? Every chapter?


	17. Chapter Seventeen

"Jack!" Baby Tooth lit up when I dropped out of the vent. "Jack you- what happened to your face?"

Ah, the classic, childhood tact. Or complete absence of it. "I got into a fight," I admitted. I gave her a quick hug, and then ruffled her hair. "What'd you do, get out the safety scissors? It's all gone!"

"Hair grows back. Does it hurt?" She pressed her fingers to my cheek, which - ouch - yes, did hurt. A lot. Wouldn't tell her though, not for the world. Baby Tooth looked worried, and I figured that she'd probably seen as bad as what I was currently suffering through. Possibly been hit herself.

My fists clenched at the thought, entirely of their own accord. People who hit children had their own circle in hell, where they got what I liked to think of as cruel and unusual punishment.

Then again, I never had liked rap music. Being forced to listen to it, 24-7 as loud as possible, was definitely torture in my book.

That and polka.

"It's a bruise," I assured her. "It only hurts if I smack myself in the face." I hefted her up into my arms, until she was clinging to my neck and resting against my - also bruised - hip. "I got into a fight with my punching bag."

Baby Tooth did her best to look sly. "That's not what I heard."

"Oh? What did you hear?"

" _I_ heard that a ghost got into a fight with security in the bathroom," Baby Tooth said, very nearly in a sing-song. "You have white hair and blue eyes and you're very, very sneaky. You could've done it!"

Ah, gossip. I had to wonder how she'd listened in on it, but either the hatchet-faced woman who cleaned and brought food had been trying to scare her, or the hatchet-faced woman hadn't come alone for the last visit. Either way, the kid had clearly gotten an earful.

"Well," I said, and tossed her on the couch. "Maybe. But I'll never tell."

Besides, escaping through the ventilation system wouldn't _work_. Tooth was too big to fit, much to her consternation. Baby Tooth didn't have the strength to crawl through the vents. However... Sneaking through the vents to steal the keys or something, that was entirely possible.

Unfortunately, while the door to Baby Tooth's apartment had a conventional key - in this case, a pass card and keypad combo - the door to the apartment me and Tooth shared... not so much. There wasn't a lock. There wasn't a _door_ , either.

There was a door on our side of things. Not on the 'public' side, though, which made things... tricky.

It wasn't anything as simple as a dimensional portal, which I'd focused on for a bit there after an episode of Star Trek. The apartment was still part of the building. The door was either hidden by really good camouflage, or by something like the Apple - technology so advanced it became magic.

I hadn't lingered long by the blank spot where a door should have been. Instead I'd gone down to the laundry - not the bathroom - and picked a fight there.

It was scary how good I was at fighting against other people. Sure, I'd been practicing with the punching bag and the katas in the empty apartment, but that wasn't against another _person_. People couldn't be predicted... only I'd realized, halfway through the fight, that they _could_ be.

A shift of the weight, a flicker of the eye, and I knew that thug five would throw a haymaker while thug two would try to sweep my feet out from under me, and thug three was going for a gun. I'd turned the fight into a freaking _dance_ , kicking in noses, punching kidneys, wreaking havoc until there hadn't been anyone else standing.

It'd felt good. At least, until the ironing board fell on my face.

All the other bruises were from the fight. Black eye... yeah. Rogue ironing board. Tooth had laughed herself into a coughing fit when I'd told her.

Baby Tooth watched as I prepared a quick snack of cheese and crackers. She took a slice of cheese, and a cracker, and nibbled, while I got as comfortable as I could, considering the bruising and strained muscles.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to have a massage. A nice one, with a care for said bruising. Maybe the handsome masseuse would be willing to kiss me anywhere it hurt, and a few other places that didn't _hurt_ , exactly, but...

Eh, not a good thought while around small children. Besides, it was really hard to imagine just what those rough finger-pads would feel like against my skin.

And the claws. Were they sharp, dull? Long enough to scrape across my shoulder blades or...

Stop. Just stop thinking about it.

"You were thinking about Bunny again," Baby Tooth said.

"Wha- how would you know that?" I shifted awkwardly, though I wasn't even half hard. And my loose pants hid a number of sins, not the least of which included a knee swollen half again as big as it should have been.

"You always look like that when you think about Bunny." Baby Tooth grinned. "When you think about Overland, you look like this-" And she made strangling motions in the air.

Oh. Huh. I hadn't realized I'd actually been making those motions...

"Overland got married." I paused, mentally reviewed everything I'd told Baby Tooth so far about Bunny and Overland, and added, "Bunny was his best man."

Baby Tooth looked confused, at that. "But, isn't Bunny in love with Overland?"

I sighed, and nodded.

"Then, shouldn't Bunny have been the bride?"

I... paused, and raised my eyebrows. "Bunny? The bride?"

Baby Tooth nodded. "You said he's pretty, and the pretty one's always the bride, and Bunny's in love with Overland so they should get married."

Aaaah. Right. If only. Actually... that was a hard one. On the one hand, Overland and Bunny together meant I got the memories. On the other hand, the thought of my idiotic, oblivious, blindingly cruel ancestor even noticing Bunny as attractive was a thought that made me want to _hurt_ something. A lot. Preferably something named Jackson Overland.

"Yeah, well, Overland was in love with Rebecca, who loved him back. He didn't love Bunny."

"But that's stupid," Baby Tooth muttered. She looked up at me, and lifted her little chin. "Bunny loved Overland first."

"It doesn't work that way. Sometimes..." I thought about dreams of green eyes and buck-toothed smiles and rough finger-pads and (mostly, in the dreams) a leporid-like penis sliding into me... "Sometimes you can love someone, and they can't or won't love you back. It's never any fun, but life isn't always fun, kiddo."

"But that's not right," she whispered. I probably wasn't supposed to hear it.

* * *

"Married life seems to be agreeing with you, mate."

Jackson whirled around at the familiar voice, and grinned at the still unfamiliar figure. "Aster! What are you doing here?"

It was easier to think of Master Bunnymund as 'Aster' when he looked like this. He'd had no idea the man was also a shapeshifter; Master Sanderson had been the one to share that particular bit of information, using his sand-shapes. Seraphina, who'd been there to talk to Master Sanderson about something else, had also learnt the fact, and seemed much interested. It had been almost funny, watching her try to flirt with Master Bunnymund after that.

Master Bunnymund had brushed her off, and at one memorable moment pointed out that he wasn't human, and therefore his tastes weren't human either. Seraphina had subsided and turned her fickle interest to another Assassin.

She would _never_ have left him alone had she caught sight of him as a human. Jackson felt free to admit that as "Aster Corbie", Master Bunnymund was the handsomest man to exist. Very much like a modern Adonis - who had apparently been real, though the stories had gotten distorted. Brown skin the color of pale walnut wood, dark gray hair with a few flecks of white to it, those deep green eyes, and muscles that put even Jackson's to shame... No few of the village women had been sighing after him during the wedding.

Rebecca had accepted Jackson's explanation of 'a friend who happens to travel a ridiculous amount', as well as Jackson's explanation that every now and then, he helped out with Aster's business. He had the sneaking suspicion he'd be telling his new wife everything, in short order, but Rebecca was no fragile flower like his mother had been, or his sister.

Rebecca had hit her suitor over the head when he'd tried to force her, without even asking for marriage first. She had stood up to her parents, who doubted her claims, to the rest of her home village, who'd insisted she must have been lying, and then to her pastor when he'd tried to make her confess to any number of nameless sins.

Instead, she'd told the pastor where he could take his patronizing idiocy, packed up, and traveled to her uncle, all on her own. Neither asking permission nor waiting to be taken care of.

Now _that_ , Jackson thought - and had thought more than once - was a _real_ woman.

"Trouble's coming," Aster admitted. "Thought I'd hang around for a bit, make sure I was in place. Rumors have Pitch on this side of the ocean."

Jackson raised his eyebrows. "I see." He looked towards his home, where Rebecca was busy attacking the laundry. After a moment, he realized he had an ice dagger in one hand, and his staff was covered in a thick layer of yet more ice. He banished the dagger, and thumped his staff several times against the ground to knock off the coating. "Well, we've just finished the spare room - if you want to stay with us, that is. Rebecca's not as bad a cook as she made out, and she already knows you can't have meat."

"A spare room?" Master Bunnymund shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Expanding?"

"Yes, well..." He was blushing. Of all things! "Rebecca, well, she hasn't been feeling well, and then the midwife was by and it explained so much, but she's getting quite a bit bigger, so we think it's twins."

Master Bunnymund went blank for a long, heart stopping minute. No doubt the same thoughts that had gone through Jackson's head were now going through his, perhaps with a bit less urgency. Pregnancy and child birth were so _risky_ , even now...

Then Master Bunnymund blinked, and breathed again. "Do you want me to hang 'round until the sprogs are out?" he asked. "If something goes wrong..."

Jackson remembered their first meeting. Master Bunnymund could regrow a boy's finger. Pregnancy issues would be nothing, to him. "Would you?" he asked. "Mind, we'd have to tell Rebecca..."

"She's trustworthy. I've no issue with it."

Jackson smiled nervously, and whistled for the dogs. They began rounding up the flock. "Well, let's just make sure she's not got hold of that rolling pin of hers," he said. "Maybe she'll let me sleep inside, tonight."

"We're telling her tonight?" Master Bunnymund asked.

"Of course we are. Before I lose my nerve." He felt for the hidden knives at his wrists. "You'd keep her from killing me, wouldn't you?"

Master Bunnymund just laughed at him.

* * *

Rebecca made him sleep outside. She didn't, however, try to brain him with her rolling pin, so he counted it a success.

At least until it started raining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry this was more of an interlude, but I promise next chapter makes up for it - and the one after REALLY makes up for it, oh my yes. We're coming up to the end, ladies and gentlemen! (Like the real Assassins Creed, this story seems to have been mostly "talk talk explain explain HOLY CRAP ACTION and end").


	18. Chapter Eighteen

I shuffled out into the living room, eyes glued shut with sleep dust. I grunted an incoherent greeting to Tooth-

And then someone grabbed me by the hair and threw me at a wall.

_At_ a wall, because I twisted mid-air like the most agile cat in the world, and rebounded mostly in control, continuing to twist and roll until I was up on my feet and looking about for the crazed maniac who'd done that.

Crazed maniac: standing in the middle of the room, looking like an overgrown, homicidal crow.

Not that crows ever looked anything but mordant-and-loving-it. It was the black feathers, of course, and their love of playing tricks.

"Morning, Pitch," I said, and deliberately yawned. "What rock did you crawl out from under today?"

Pitch sneered at me. "Hello, Jack. It is nine in the morning. Why are you not in the Animus yet?"

I paused, if only because sleep-fogged-brain refused to compute. "Uh. You care about time limits now?"

Pitch moved towards me, it what should have been a stalk but was more like a glide. "Why have you not gone insane yet?"

I knuckled sleep out of my eyes, and looked over at Tooth. She stayed where she was, halfway between the kitchen table and the Animus, looking terrified. Then I looked back at Pitch.

He wanted crazy, huh...? Well, too bad for him. "I'm gay. Homosexual. Two swords, no sheaths. Unless you want _way_ too many details, no sheaths. Um... The love that cannot be mentioned in polite society." I paused, and added, " _Sodomite_."

Pitch looked annoyed and disgusted. "What does this have to do with-"

"Overland was straight. Obvious, because he diddled your daughter."

Lord Mordant of Bad Fashion Choices snarled at me. "Enough. Get in the Animus!"

I raised my eyebrows. "Sorry, Pitch. Not in my contract. Animus time doesn't start until eleven." I pretended to check a nonexistent watch. "Oh look, not eleven."

Backhand to the cheek. I ducked under, bobbed around a short jab, stepped around behind him, and began to sing.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and _gay_!"

Pitch snarled and spun to hit me. I did a quick swerve around the blow, and continued.

"And I pity, any boy who isn't me today- I feel charming! Oh so charming! It's alarming how charming I feel!"

Pitch made one last attempt at hitting me, but it was half-hearted at best. "Do you want a _bribe_?" he demanded.

I continued to sing at the top of my lungs, repeating the one line of feeling pretty and witty and gay, since I didn't remember the rest of the song. He snarled, and retreated in disorder.

I stopped singing when the door closed, and grimaced. "Tooth? Did I really just beat Pitch by howling at the top of my lungs about my sexual preferences?"

"Don't worry," she assured me. "You weren't that explicit." She paused, and added, "Would you go with a love slave as a bribe?"

"Depends on who it is," I said, and groped for the glass of milk she held out to me. "I mean, if his name is Aster Bunnymund, who am I to say no...?"

* * *

Jackson looked up when the door slammed open, and needed only a split second to register who it was and send a throwing knife at his face.

St. North swatted the knife out of the way, heedless of the narrow slice across the back of his hand as a result. "Where is Seraphina?" he thundered, setting the twins to wailing. He started and stared over at the large bassinet with no little fear in his expression.

Jackson set his carving down on the table, and then got up and moved over to the bassinet. The twins were howling as though demons of hell were at their heels; or, more accurately phrased, as though a loud idiot had just come storming in and interrupted their nap.

"Come on now, Harold," he said, and scooped the boy up first. Harold was always the first to calm. If Jackson settled him first, he could tend to Diana, who was more sensitive to noises. Harold, at least, wouldn't be set off by his sister's wails.

It took a bit of pacing and rocking for Harold to calm down, with the odd whimper thrown in as the babe began to drift off again. Diana took longer. Jackson yawned between soothing murmurs. He and Rebecca were going short of sleep, of late. It seemed the twins thought the twilight hours the perfect time to be awake, and insisted their parents join them as well.

Diana settled, finally, and Jackson eased her back down into the bassinet. Only when the twins were both asleep again did he turn around and look at St. North.

"Outside," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "Wake the children again, and I'll set Poppet at you."

The old sheepdog thumped her tail once against the floorboards, but didn't look up. St. North gave the dog a dubious look, but obediently retreated to outside.

Jackson left the door open a crack, enough that he'd be able to hear the twins if they woke up. "What do you want?" he asked.

St. North drew himself up- but didn't yell, if only because Jackson had another throwing knife in hand. "Seraphina is missing. She said she would be visiting the дети," he said, and nodded towards the door. "But-"

"But she is not here," Jackson finished. He frowned. "No one told _me_ anyone, let alone her, would visit." Apart from Master Bunnymund, of course, who was sure to end up a favorite uncle when the children were old enough to know who was who.

"Just so," St. North said. He frowned at Jackson. "So where is she?"

"You assume _I_ know?"

"She came here. This is your land, is it not? If there is danger here-"

"There isn't, unless you are an absolute moron." Jackson mentally tallied up the local threats. Or lack of them. No bandits, no natives to steal and kidnap women, not even any wolves. The occasional black bear, easily frightened off if you kept your head. There was the lake in the forest, which was fifty feet deep at least, or so it had seemed the one time he'd gone swimming down there. Good for fishing, good for swimming, but only if you knew what you were doing.

As for anything else... there were patches of poison ivy and the odd, shallow ravine. Hardly life threatening, any of it.

"Are you calling Serephina a moron?" St. North asked, swelling up like a toad.

Jackson poked at him with the throwing knife. "Hardly. I am saying that there is nothing here to threaten her."

St. North deflated with a scowl. "But she never got here," he repeated.

He sighed. "Obviously. Or you would not be here." He considered the situation. "Have you tried tracking her?"

"How?" the Templar asked. "I don't know the trick."

Of course he didn't. Jackson glared, but there wasn't any real way around it. "Go back to the enclave. Get Master Bunnymund. Explain the situation. Master Bunnymund can track Seraphina."

"And you?" St. North demanded. He reached out to grab at Jackson's shoulder, and pulled back when he swiped at the man's wrist with the throwing knife.

"I'm watching the twins until Rebecca gets back." She was taking the opportunity to visit her uncle, and get some uninterrupted sleep. Jackson could hardly begrudge her; he had his time out in the sheep fields, after all.

North glowered at him, and then turned and stormed away. Jackson went back inside, and picked up his carving.

He didn't put knife to wood, though. He was too busy thinking.

Why would Seraphina decide to visit the twins? She hated children, she'd told him that once.

* * *

St. North was back two hours later, just as Rebecca got home.

"Bunnymund is in Australia," he said, barely sparing Jackson's wife a glance. Rebecca looked annoyed at the ill manners, but she hadn't gone for any of the cookery yet, so he had to assume no one was going to get hit in the head.

Jackson glowered, but the twins were already awake and making hungry sounds. "Are you going to insist on staying inside while my wife feeds the children, or will you at least act the gentleman and go out?"

"Feed?" St. North asked.

Rebecca turned and glowered at him. "Feed," she said, and began unlacing her bodice. "Let them nurse. From my _breast_ ," she added, quite pointedly. "These aren't for grown men, you know."

Jackson grinned at her. "You're wonderful."

"And you should get out."

So he should. Jackson saluted her, and then followed after St. North, who was fleeing the small home as though chased by hungry wolves.

St. North kept going until they were almost to the tree line, at which point he stopped. When he looked back at Jackson, his eyes were quite wide and he seemed quite shocked.

"She is quite the... с дымком, yes?"

"What does that mean?" Jackson felt for one of his knives.

"Fierce," St. North said, smiling faintly. "Brave. There is no proper word in this language. English, bah! Such a poor, limited tongue."

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Right then. I guess I'll help look for Seraphina. Master Bunnymund doesn't let anyone know where he goes, when it's Australia."

"Not even you?" St. North led the way into the woods. There was only one place where Seraphina could have come out, of course; the shallow cave near the lake.

"Why would he tell me?" Jackson looked at his shepherd's staff, but it didn't appear any different. Master Bunnymund had said the alterations were just for emergencies. A safe house, he'd called it. All Jackson had to do was thump the ground three times with his staff, and a private tunnel would open up.

St. North looked at him oddly. "Because he loves you, maybe? Why would he not tell you?"

Jackson paused. "Loves me?" He thought about how Master Bunnymund was always around. "Like... a brother?"

Another odd look. "As my brother loved his Piotr."

As... "Your brother was a sodomite?"

St. North nodded, once. "He preferred the term catamite. Fewer ill connotations." He sighed, then. "They killed him as they kill traitors. Just for loving Piotr. The Templars saved me of them, but they were not able to save my Sasha."

Jackson felt something small and cold lodge in his stomach. "And you say Master Bunnymund feels that way for me?" That the Master of the Assassins was a - a catamite?

No. St. North had to be misreading the situation. Master Bunnymund was a different species, the same gender, and not a deviant, of all things!

"It is in his eyes," St. North said, gesturing to his own face. "I know you are married to the lady Rebecca, but she will not live forever. Master Bunnymund is willing to wait for you." He chuckled, and actually winked at Jackson. "I am sure you will not be disappointed when you are finally free for him, yes?"

Jackson stared blindly at the trees. "I have no idea what you are talking about." Free for him? Free of Rebecca? "I- I have _no_ interest in- I am _not_ a- be _silent_ , St. North!"

St. North did stop talking, and stared at Jackson for several minutes. "I... I seem to have misunderstood," he said, at last. "I thought..."

"Rebecca is my wife and my love." Jackson shivered, something he hadn't done since getting his powers. "I would _never_ betray her, not with anyone! And especially not with another man!"

"I am sorry," St. North said. "Please, forget I said anything."

That was hardly going to be possible. How was he to face Master Bunnymund now? "Let's just hurry up and find Seraphina. The sooner that is done, the sooner I can get back home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't know why Pitch let himself be chased out by bad music, either. Maybe he just showed up bored and looking to beat someone up? Ah well... Oh yes, Jackson knows.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Jackson moved slowly, as much to annoy North as because Seraphina seemed to have tried hiding her tracks. Every chance she had gotten, it seemed, she'd gone over rocky ground that didn't hold prints, or through thick bramble bushes - without ever leaving so much as a snagged thread behind - or, at one point, laying a false trail! The tracks he followed led to fallen logs, backtracked, across three streams - or maybe the same one, twisting back and forth - and finally turned towards a place he'd only heard about, but never been.

The natives all refused to go there; the colonists considered it an unlucky place. Ghosts were said to wander the abandoned streets. Just who had owned the colony, New Netherlands or New Sweden, well... Neither side was willing to claim it, at this point. Because that meant accusing the other side of attacking a defenseless settlement, killing the men and children, raping the women, and setting off the war that ended with New Sweden being driven out of Pennsylvania.

That sort of talk would only start the whole thing over again. If New Netherlands said it was their colony, New Sweden would have to get all 'diplomatic' over the slur to their honor. And if New Sweden said that it had been their colony, New Netherlands would have to do the same, for the same reason.

The putative ownership no longer mattered to the ghosts. They were said to lurk in the ruined buildings, nasty things that sought only to kill any living thing that entered the village boundaries.

St. North snorted and looked doubtful when Jack told him the tale. "Ghosts are not like that," he said. "They stay only when forced."

"Horrible death followed by lack of decent burial."

The Cossack considered that, and grimaced. "Well, alright. Perhaps they are forced. Has no one tried to send a priest?"

"Apparently the last one to go out was returned - flayed - and missing his head, arms, and legs." Jackson crouched down to study a footprint. Probably a footprint. That was definitely a heel. "She's going that way. Why?"

St. North shook his head. "I do not know."

Jackson sat back on his heels. "Let's go," he said. "And could you try to walk a little louder? I don't think the House of Commons in London has heard you yet."

"I have a sword," St. North muttered. "I have two swords. And I am walking behind you. I could lop your head off before you knew."

But he did walk quieter.

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the massacre sight. From just within the forest, it was an unprepossessing sight; a cluster of some thirty-odd buildings, mostly collapsed by now, a few with small trees growing up through the roofs. Jackson recognized the blacksmith's, if only by the anvil still in the middle of the work area. The only building that could be said, with any real honesty, to still be in any kind of repair was the church, and that was probably due only to the walls having been built entirely out of stone. It should have looked sad.

It didn't.

The light breeze that whispered through the forest, groaned through the village. The trees growing inside the boundary, mostly black pines, seemed sickly, their branches skeletal things that resembled a hag's claw instead of anything that should have been growing. The shadows seemed darker, the light weaker, and the church building seemed to loom over the remaining buildings like a corrupt priest over groveling peasants.

"The tracks lead into the village," Jackson murmured. "Follow me. Do as I do."

St. North nodded, and scuttled along behind the Assassin. They made use of every scrap of cover between the edge of the forest, and the church. Seraphina had to have gone there. Quite simply, there was nowhere else to go.

Jackson's skin crawled the instant he set foot in the village proper. He felt a strange reluctance to take shelter in the shadows. St. North also seemed to have the same issue. Though it made traveling unseen harder, Jackson chose a route that led through the shadows as little as possible.

The church sat at the center of the village, near the now-broken well. The windows were empty; shutters rotten away, and if there'd ever been any glazing, it was broken and the shards vanished. Strangely, there were no climbing vines on the walls, not even any moss or lichen. The priest in Jackson's home village usually hired a few children, every spring and autumn, to pull weeds and scrub off the persistent green fuzz.

Jackson held his staff at the ready. Thus far he had not seen so much as a beetle inside the village boundary, and that just seemed strange. He couldn't hear any birdsong. He glanced back over his shoulder at St. North, who looked as though his hair was being scared white, simply from being here.

They crept across the remains of the road, covered in grass, to the side of the church. Neither of them touched the side, but moved to crouch beneath one of the open windows.

"- missed you," Seraphina murmured. Jackson frowned. Missed... who?

"You have an important task, darling." St. North's eyes widened in recognition; Jackson's narrowed as he tried to place a name and face to the voice. "We could never have gotten this far without the intelligence you have gathered."

"You honor me." Jackson considered the sound of cloth rustling against cloth. "But as I said, Father - I have missed you."

The other person - Pitch Black, by that 'Father' comment - chuckled. "Have you now, my dear? Very well. Come here, then."

Jackson titled his head to the side. It took an embarrassingly long time to place the following sounds - quiet murmurs of non-words, breathy sighs, and an odd, quiet, and above all _slick_ sound that he finally placed as the noises made by the most _enthusiastic_ of kissing...

His eyes went wide, and he stared at St. North in horror. Seraphina was kissing her father? Like _that_?

Then that meant... His manhood tried to shrink and climb inside his body.

St. North looked sick. "Are they... what I think they are...?"

Jackson nodded, and gave the mental twist of will that sheathed his staff in ice. "Let's go stop them," he whispered.

They moved around to the front door, which was still mostly on its hinges. St. North kicked it in, and it made a satisfying thud when it hit the floor.

Pitch looked up, hands in places where no father should ever touch his daughter, and snarled. "Nicholas? And... _Jackson_..."

Jackson twirled his staff in a quick circle. "Black. And... ah, this is where you got to, Seraphina. Naughty girl." Naked girl, and in the process of stripping her father down. Jackson swallowed down bile. "And here we thought you were sane."

"Seraphina, what is this? What are you doing?" St. North was all but pleading. Jackson glanced over at him, and then back at Pitch, who was beginning to smirk. That was not a good thing.

Then something exploded.

Jackson pulled himself out of a pile of rubble, and looked around. The entire front of the church had... vanished. St. North was over to one side, slumped under what looked like half a rubble heap, barely conscious and groaning.

"So, he let you touch the Apple, did he?" Pitch walked forward. He pulled his shirt back on, and began doing up the buttons.

"What gave it away?" Jackson held his staff up in a guard position, and reinforced the ice.

"He isn't here, is he?" Pitch did - something - and then a shadow lifted up off the ground and became a sword. It was a rapier, eight feet long, and only as wide as Jackson's two fingers at the base. Unlike all other rapiers, it appeared this one was sharp all along the blade, instead of only the last eight inches.

He twirled the rapier in a figure eight, and grinned at Jackson. "Do you like it? Only the latest fashion in Italy."

Jackson readied his staff. "You and your daughter," he said. "Why?"

"Who better?" Pitch lunged across the distance, rapier stabbing forwards. Jackson blocked with the staff, and sidestepped the lunge. Ice flew up, but better ice than blood.

Jackson swung his staff in a quarter-arc down towards Pitch's arm. The man moved like a snake; one instant he'd been fully extended, the next he'd whipped around and blocked the blow with the protective quillions of his sword.

They traded several blows, neither one managing to get a hit in. Jackson stayed well within the rapier's range, while Pitch dodged and blocked the staff.

"You would make a wonderful Templar," Pitch said. He punched at Jackson's ribs.

Jackson twisted out of the way, and made a quick hand gesture to go with the twist of will. Icicles formed in midair and shot down at Pitch; the Templar leader had to block with several quick slashes of his rapier.

"I wouldn't," Jackson said, and pressed the attack. "Too much honor. Integrity. _Intelligence_." He spun around a thrust, and stuck the end of his staff between Pitch's legs. Before the Templar could do more than widen his eyes in realization, Jackson jerked the end of his staff up with as much strength as he could manage.

Pitch gasped, and folded over. Jackson whipped his staff around and began to bring it down on the Templar's head.

Sudden pain scorched low across his back. Jackson arched away from it with a cry, and turned to face the enemy from an unexpected quarter.

Seraphina grinned at him, and began reloading her crossbow.

Well, damn. Perhaps it was a good thing she'd never shown this much spirit when they'd been sleeping together. He might have been tempted to get serious about her, otherwise.

Jackson thrust one hand at her, and didn't watch the resulting snow that blasted into her face. Instead, he turned to finish off Pitch - who wasn't there.

"Low blow," Pitch hissed from behind him, and Jackson barely dodged out of the way in time. The sharp edge of the rapier caught him across the bicep, though barely more than a deep scratch.

Jackson moved back, closer to St. North, where he could keep both Blacks in view. Blood trickled down his buttock from the slice in his back. More dripped down his arm to the elbow.

"Seraphina," St. North groaned. He pushed himself up onto one knee, so he knelt behind and a little to the side of Jackson. "Why? You told me..." He coughed, and thumped one hand against his chest. "You told me you feared your father, that - that you felt the Templars had strayed from our original purpose in your Father's dream of petty revenge against... Against the Assassins."

Seraphina looked at him, frowning a little. "And you _believed_ me? Destroying the Assassins is what the Templars were created to do. You know this. You were told this. Did you doubt, Nicholas? Me? My father?"

"I _believed_ you!" Jackson was forced to look away from the emotion in St. North's face. "I trusted you when you said that - but it was a lie, wasn't it? You were _never_ forced by him to - to do anything!"

Seraphina looked annoyed. She lifted the crossbow. Jackson tensed; he could dodge crossbow bolts, if everything went well. He just didn't care to test it.

"If you are _quite_ finished?"

"Yes," St. North said. He pushed himself all the way up onto his feet, and drew his swords. "I am. You-"

She shot him.

St. North fell without a sound, bolt in his stomach. Jackson didn't waste any time looking to see if he was dead or not; he launched himself across the ground, and swung his staff up into Seraphina's chin before she could reload the crossbow.

Seraphina's head snapped back, and she dropped the crossbow. Jackson kicked it away.

Then Pitch was on him, and Seraphina had a knife, and it was all he could do to stay even with them, trading blow after blow.

The last thought he had, before things got too hectic for thought, was how _strange_ everything looked, with a blizzard in midsummer.

* * *

The fight had moved into the forest, where Jackson's blizzard couldn't reach. Ice coated the trees, freezing them in place even as Seraphina made them attack Jackson.

She had lied about her abilities. The trees bowed to her will, the animals came at her call, and it seemed the earth itself responded to her commands. Jackson spent most of his energy in coating everything in ice and snow; that seemed to block her, at least partially.

The rest of his energy and attention was spent on dodging Pitch. The rapier was of little use among the trees, though he fenced like an expert.

Jackson panted for breath, and ducked beneath a swinging tree branch, even as he blocked and shoved aside a rapier blow aimed at his head. Sweat and blood dripped down his face and off his chin.

Much longer, and he wouldn't be able to freeze the trees or dodge the rapier. He wondered how quickly he could get a tunnel open, and in. Fast enough to escape the Blacks?

He didn't know.

Besides that, he couldn't just leave. Rebecca and the twins - Seraphina knew about them, the Templars would be _more_ than happy to get their hands on Jackson's family!

"Duck!"

He ducked, and a boomerang spun through the spot where his head had just been.

"Master Bunnymund!" Jackson rolled out of the way, froze the attacking bush, and got back up onto his feet. "I thought you were -"

"Felt it when yer blood hit the ground." Master Bunnymund caught the boomerang, and glared at Pitch and Seraphina. "I'll be expecting an explanation, after."

"Of course." Jackson sucked in breath after desperate breath, yet even so he couldn't help but look over at Master Bunnymund.

He didn't _look_ like a sodomite. Surely St. North had been mistaken.

"Well, isn't that just interesting," Pitch said, nearly purring. Jackson looked back at the Templar leader. It was insulting, how Pitch wasn't even breathing hard. "What an _interesting_ fear you have, Jackson."

Fear?

"And of your own, dear friend, too." Pitch tilted his rapier at Master Bunnymund. "He knows."

Master Bunnymund hesitated. "Knows what?"

Pitch chuckled. "Why, how you feel about him, of course! What else could make him _cringe_ inside?"

Master Bunnymund looked away from Pitch and over at Jackson. "You..."

Jackson shook his head in denial. "St. North said - but he has to be wrong!"

By the look in Master Bunnymund's eyes, St. North hadn't been wrong.

Pitch clucked his tongue, and made a theatrical gesture with the rapier. "What did you expect, Aster? For him to welcome your deviances?"

"Oh, as if you're normal," Jackson snarled. Master Bunnymund was still his friend, when all was said and done. And his friend did not need nor deserve such treatment as Pitch would give him! "You're having sex with your own daughter!"

"Oh, please. She consented." Pitch lunged for Jackson.

Jackson told his body to move, but he was too tired. He stumbled to the side, but nowhere near fast enough to get out of the way.

Master Bunnymund got to him first. He shoved Jackson to the side, twisted - and the rapier slid through his torso and out the other side.

His blood was so dark a red it was almost black.

Pitch hesitated, and then began to laugh. "Well! About time, rabbit!" He twisted the rapier and pulled it out. Master Bunnymund groaned and fell to his knees, and then to his side. "If I had known it would be this easy, I would have found you someone useless to love long before now!"

Master Bunnymund wheezed once, and then went still.

Far too still.

Jackson lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, warning you now. Work's going to get a bit crazy (Think working four days on a row, weekends are ten hour shifts) but I'll do my best to keep the posting schedule the same.
> 
> Also, you may commence freaking out.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Pitch ducked the first explosion, and the second, both driving him back and away from - from the corpse on the ground. Jackson held tight to his staff, as though that could help him contain the emotion fair to drive him mad.

Another tree froze to the core and shattered, the canopy falling down to the forest floor. Jackson grinned, and sent his power to another tree, and then a third. Splinters as long as his arm, and thick as three fingers, shot through the air like the most lethal of arrows. Branches the size of small trees hit the ground one after the other, the frozen wood shattering on impact. The sound of hundreds of thousands of frozen leaves knocking together, against the ground, against frozen wood, was better than any music he'd ever experienced.

Pitch. He had to find Pitch, bury the man beneath frozen branches, fill his chest with frozen arrows. Only then would he make up for what he'd done to Master Bunnymund.

Master Bunnymund had been his first, dearest friend, and by his hesitation, by his overconfidence, he had gotten that friend killed. There was nothing, _nothing_ he wouldn't do to avenge his friend's death.

Some sense warned him, and he spun around, one of his hidden blades out and lifted in a block.

Seraphina screeched in thwarted rage when her weapon - some kind of polearm, he noticed absently - hit his blade and was diverted to the side. Jackson bellowed as well; his blade had shattered, and one of the metal shards slashed through the meat of his cheek, lodging halfway into his upper jaw. The pain from that wound initially drowned out a second; he didn't realize until he noticed the lack of depth perception. His left eye had been pierced by a splinter.

Master Bunnymund could fix it.

Jackson's breath caught on a single sob. Master Bunnymund would heal nothing ever again.

He chased after Seraphina, doing his best to be mindful both of her powers, and his limited vision.

It worked only so well; he was attacked on his blind side. The slashing tip of the sword cut halfway to the bone of his arm. Jackson turned and gestured wildly with his hand. Blood speckled the ice daggers that formed in midair before shooting at Pitch.

Jackson took the split second to freeze the injury to his arm. Blood loss was far more dangerous to him than the cold was.

He traded several blows with Pitch, the Templar leader yet with more strength to his attacks than Jackson could put in his defense. But he matched the blows; difficult though it was, he matched them, keeping his speed if not his power.

"You know, Jackson," Pitch said, between blows. "This isn't necessary. You have been quite useful to me; I would welcome you into my own establishment. Thanks to you, one of the leaders of the Assassins is dead. There is very little about them that you don't know. Think about it. Safety for you, for your wife and children-"

Jackson screamed, and took a cut to the ribs as he lunged forward. Pitch staggered backward, but Jackson kept his hand to the man's chest. He gathered his power and _shoved_. Ice covered Pitch's shirt, and then reached greedy fingers to the man's skin, and to the water in his blood.

Pitch screamed and fell backwards, cloth ripping like tissue and the skin beneath splitting as blood froze and expanded in his veins. Every little capillary burst, the larger veins and arteries tearing apart as the ice stabbed through the walls.

" _Father_!"

Jackson was knocked to the side. He hit the ground and skidded several feet, shredding his shirt and knocking the wind out of him. He managed, somehow, to lift his head just enough to look over.

Seraphina cradled Pitch's head in her lap, and was babbling assurances and curses in equal measure. She pressed her hands against the blood spilling from his front, but Jackson had managed to turn Pitch's body into a horror. There would be no stemming that tide. He grinned to see it, even though darkness was creeping in at the corners of his eyes.

It was his ribs. All along one side, they seemed to be broken. He could barely breathe; every attempt only made pain stab through his chest. Also, there seemed to be a gurgling noise that accompanied the pain.

Was he dying?

If so... at least he had removed Pitch from the Templars. He didn't want to leave Rebecca, or the twins. God above, no. But if he had to, if there was no other choice... at least he would leave having done that one thing.

He hoped... who was it that led the Assassins now? Master Mansnoozie, that was it. He hoped Master Mansnoozie saw to Rebecca. The children. The remaining Templars would never rest in hunting them down, now.

It was so hard to hold his head up.

Jackson let his head drop down against the forest floor, covered with a thick layer of hoarfrost that numbed the ache in his skull like benediction from a merciful God. Did Pooka go to Heaven? He hoped so. He wanted, needed to tender his apologies to Master Bunnymund.

The Pooka loved him? What of it? It did not make Master Bunnymund a deviant. There was more to love, he realized now, than that of mere romance. There was the love of a brother, the love shared between those greater than friends, the love that transcended differences and created a union of souls devoted to one purpose. Jackson loved his wife, his children. And in a way so much the same, and so different, he loved his fellow Assassins, his fellow villagers, and even his sheep and the dogs.

And, too, he loved Master Bunnymund. With all his being, he loved Aster.

Jackson closed his eyes. Soon, he thought.

"Yes," he heard Seraphina say. "That's right. To the shadows, Father. Heal up."

Heal up?

Jackson forced his eyes open, and head up. He could see, just, Pitch Black.

The man was healing.

Had it been possible, he would have breathed a curse. He could _see_ flesh knitting together, under the blood and ruin.

And then Pitch Black slid down into the shadows, leaving Seraphina kneeling on the ground alone. She looked terribly worried, hands bloody and gown ruined. Jackson would have felt sorry for her, who looked like any woman fretting over a beloved husband, save that she was not worried for a husband but a father.

Yet a father she cared for like a husband...

Seraphina visibly collected herself, and looked up to meet Jackson's gaze. "You," she growled, eyes seeming almost to glow. "You shall suffer before you die."

Jackson wheezed when pain overwhelmed the mere ache of his ribs. He could see nothing, hear nothing, feel only the agony of - dear God, were those roots wrapping around his limbs? Digging into his _skin_?

"And," he heard, through the ringing in his ears. "Just to make your suffering so much more... I think I shall pay a visit to your lovely children and darling wife. Won't that be nice?" She patted his cheek. "I promise to take good care of them, for the rest of their very short lives."

* * *

He was drowning in blood, but he couldn't let that stop him. The roots in his body were painful, the shattered ribs an agony, but pain couldn't be allowed to slow him down.

Rebecca. The twins. For them, he would do _anything_.

Including destroy himself to save them.

Jackson couldn't open his eyes - or maybe they were open and he just couldn't see - but that didn't matter. The power the Apple had given him was a seething, bubbling energy at his core. He drew upon it but lightly to make it snow; only a little more power to ice things over.

Now, he drew upon all of it, and sent it coursing through his veins, along his bones, over his skin.

If he was burning alive, it would not have hurt nearly as much.

He screamed. Somehow, he managed to draw enough breath for that.

* * *

He was ice. A living, breathing sculpture of a man, glittering in the sun, fog rolling off him from the differences in temperature. Ice crystals so fine they were powder fell from him with every movement.

And he ran faster than even a horse could go.

Jackson saw through eyes frozen solid, breathed with lungs coated inside and out with ice, ran while muscles frozen solid flexed and bent to his will. His staff was frozen to his hand so he could not have dropped it if he'd wanted to, but why would he? It made a wonderful conduit for the seething power running through his iced veins.

He was a dead man given a semblance of life. His heart struggled to beat, but even if it had ceased, he could have continued long enough... long enough.

There was enough time to see his family safe, enough power to keep him moving until that moment, when he could rest.

Frost covered the ground where he ran, the trees as he passed.

And then he came upon his sheep fields. The sheep were on the ground, asleep or dead. The dogs were locked in place, forced immobile until they saw him. They leapt at him, stiff legged and moving with jerky, clockwork motions.

Jackson struck them down before they had gone more than three or four paces. His dying heart broke to do it, but what other options had there been?

None. And he knew on whose head he could lay the deaths of his dogs.

He ran through the field towards his home. He saw the impossible tableau as he crested the last rise, and however deadly the situation, he wanted to laugh.

Poppet stood between Seraphina and the house, hackles up and head down, growling. The aged dog trembled, and Jackson fancied she was fighting Seraphina's power. The old, stubborn bitch never had backed down from anything when it came to her jobs. Whether she was protecting the sheep, or protecting his family...

Behind her, Rebecca stood in the doorway, brandishing her rolling pin.

His love for her threatened to melt the ice in and about his heart. He couldn't let that happen; the moment it did, he would fall dead to the ground. He forced his attention away from his beloved, and on to Seraphina instead.

"Seraphina!" he roared. The ice made him sound strange, like a wrathful, pagan god.

The Templar woman spun to face him, and blanched. "Jackson," she breathed, eyes going pure white in her shock.

He didn't allow her time to gather herself; simply launched himself down to the yard, whipping his staff around as he came.

He felt the shock of impact as a distant thing, and skidded until he stood between Seraphina and his house. Poppet barked once, and then whined.

"Inside," he demanded. The dog obeyed instantly. Rebecca took a moment longer, lingering in the doorway. He could sense her, a source of heat against his back.

"Jackson?" she asked.

He nodded, not looking away from Seraphina.

"I love you," Rebecca whispered, and he both felt her retreat and heard the door close. It was as close to goodbye as he would ever get, he knew. He set the emotion aside for the moment, and faced Seraphina.

The fight that followed was nothing like their first. Jackson was as fast as she, and able to put as much force into his blows as her father had. He drove her ever back, away from his home, away from his family, into the woods and further on.

His ice spread across the loam, the trees, hemming her in and driving her on. He followed, feeding his failing body with the seething power that was beginning to seethe less. The bottomless well had reached an end. He would have to end this soon, lest _he_ end before she did.

They were coming near to the lake, that deep and treacherous body of water. He could feel-see-sense his ice reaching even to there, coating the surface of water in a thin, frigid skin.

There. He would drive her there, and take her into the depths of the lake with him.

Together in death as they had never been in life.

Jackson drove Seraphina on, never letting her rest. She matched him, her strange polearm twisting and whirling, but he was not bound by the desire to live at the end of the fight. He let her land blows to his shoulders, his sides, his hips and thighs, because they did nothing but chip at the ice coating him.

"Why won't you die?" Seraphina asked, eyes wide and terrified.

Jackson paused, because it frightened her more. "Because you have yet not," he told her, and drove her on again.

The appearance of the lake must have seemed like providence. Jackson had let himself slow, as much fakery as reality, so that she could imagine a possible escape. The ice covering the lake seemed satisfactorily thick, surely enough to hold her weight and not his.

Seraphina whirled and ran towards the lake. Jackson followed.

She stumbled when the ice cracked underfoot, and whirled to dart back to safer ground - but he was there, blocking her. He didn't let the ice break beneath her, yet. Instead, he stalked and herded her to the center of the lake. The ice cracked and threatened to break at any moment, but held.

"You threatened my wife," he said.

Seraphina laughed at him. "That miserable bitch? You were better off with me. At least I am your equal!"

Jackson snarled, and lunged for her.

Not to fight. To grab, to hold, and to bring his foot down through the ice holding them up.

It shattered.

"No!" Seraphina grabbed for the edge of the ice, missed, and was dragged down into the water with him.

It was cold, and dark, but he wasn't afraid. Not now, as the power that had sustained him finally ran out. The ice that had taken place of his body began to melt. He was able, just, to keep hold of Seraphina, keep her from pulling free and swimming to the surface.

The last thing he saw were a flash of red hair, and gold eyes glowing in the darkness.

And then everything ended, and he knew peace.

* * *

Dad wrenched at my arm, and shoved. "Get out there!"

"But Dad-"

"I said get!" His face was red. I stumbled back a step, and looked involuntarily at the gun at his hip.

"Dad, please." I looked around. The park was empty. The snow was in mounds higher than Dad's waist. Why would anyone come out here? "Dad, please, I'm sorry, whatever I did-"

"Stop talking!" Dad lashed out with his fist, and caught me on the ear. I was knocked to the ground. Rose yelped, and then landed next to me.

"Both of you! Get going!"

I grabbed Rosemary's hand in mine, and pulled her to her feet. She sobbed, and clung to my sweater with her other hand.

"C'mon," I whispered. "We're going to be okay." I backed the both of us towards the lake. Dad watched, scowling, but at least he didn't follow us, or throw stones because we were going too slow.

If I whispered, he wouldn't hear us. I hugged Rosemary close, and pressed my mouth to her ear. "We're going to run across the lake. The ice is thick enough. The highway's on the other side of the forest. He won't be able to catch us. Just stay with me, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered back. "Jack, I'm scared."

"I know. But you're going to be okay. I promise."

Dad folded his arms. "Faster," he demanded. We picked up the pace.

We reached the edge of the lake, where Dad had always made us stop and wait before. Neither of us had coats, or boots, or gloves or hats or scarves, even. Standing next to the frozen lake was torture, something that wouldn't be visible after half an hour warming up in the car. Dad hadn't always done this, but then I'd started school and the nurse had asked questions about my bruises.

So now he made us freeze. I was pretty sure it was better than getting beaten. Probably.

I rubbed Rosemary's shoulder, and looked down at her. "Ready?" I asked.

"Yeah," she whispered.

"Right." I looked back up at Dad, who had actually looked away. "Now!"

We turned and ran across the ice.

It cracked underfoot, but held. I had Rosemary by the hand, and ran the straightest line I could. We'd cross the narrow part of the kidney shaped lake, and hit land near the tiny cliff that ran along the short side. Then we'd be in the woods.

I heard the gun go off, and saw ice spray up to his side.

Oh. Right. Dad had a gun.

I ran faster.

"Jack!" Rosemary stumbled; I jerked on her arm and half dragged her several steps. "Jack he's coming after us!"

I glanced back. He was. Dad waved his gun in the air, yelling, face red. I turned and ran faster, dragging Rosemary.

Another gunshot, another spray of ice. It was my turn to stumble. The ice spider-webbed under me. Water actually welled up from the cracks, soaking my jeans at the knees.

"He's getting closer!"

I pulled Rosemary down under me just in time. The bullet shot through where she'd just been.

The ice, already stressed by my weight, shattered under both of ours.

Rosemary screamed when we dropped. I held tight to her, and kicked for the surface even while we fell.

The cold was like _knives_.

I could hear Dad swearing, but didn't care. We had to get out of the water. We had to get across the lake. We had to get away from him!

I pulled myself up onto the ice, and Rosemary up beside me. We were both shaking. It was so _cold_.

Dad shot at us again.

This time, he hit.

Rosemary gasped, and clutched at her side. Blood welled up around her fingers. I spun, somehow ending up on my feet and staring at Dad.

He shot the ice at my feet.

I fell into the water again.

It was cold, and dark, and I was so scared.

And then everything ended, and I knew peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys. Unfortunately my computer is dying. Fortunately my birthday is coming up, so the parents will chip in on a replacement (instead of buying me gift cards. Not like I want anything...) Equally fortunately, everything is now on Google Docs for the time being, instead of, say, my stupid computer. Hopefully this will all be settled in a week or two.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Torture. I was being tortured.

Pitch forced me into the Animus over and over. I relived North's death, Bunny's death, Jackson's death over and over. My own death.

I remembered now. A childhood of fear. Of having to be strong and protect my little sister. Of my father, always angry, always yelling. I couldn't remember my mother. Even in my earliest memories, when Rosemary was barely out of diapers, I couldn't remember her.

I couldn't sleep. I didn't eat. I drank, because Tooth begged me to.

And the Animus. Always with the Animus.

"Jack?" I felt Tooth brush a hand over my hair, but it was distant. Easily ignored. "Jack, talk to me. Please."

Why? What was the point?

Bunny was dead. I'd never meet him, not as myself. I'd never be able to touch that fur and see if it was as soft as it looked. Never be able to cup his cheek with my hand. I'd never hug him, never talk to him, never lift that old grief from his eyes.

It wasn't fair. The man I loved was dead. Had died three hundred years before I was born.

I could get very angry about that, if I'd only had the energy.

Tooth took both of my hands in hers. "Jack, I need you to listen to me. Alright? Can you do that for me, please?"

I blinked, and looked up at her, focusing dully. She must have taken that for agreement, because she squeezed my hand and smiled, very faintly.

"Thank you. Jack, Pitch is very happy about something. I don't think that's a good thing, do you?"

Pitch. My fingers twitched, no doubt because of my desire to wrap my hands around his scrawny little neck and _squeeze_...

"No one else has ever lasted this long," she admitted. Despite myself, I leaned forward to hear her better. "They had all gone mad before now, and... killed themselves. Now, though... He's seen something he wants. Or has been looking for."

Either that or he was enjoying watching Bunny die...

Tooth squeezed my hands again. "You talked about escape! We can't stay here, Jack. We can't let Pitch win."

That did it. If nothing else, I didn't want Pitch to win. Just what he'd win, I didn't know or care; Bunny was dead, after all. The least I could do - or the most I could do - would be to steal Pitch's victory from him.

After that... I didn't know. Tooth... Baby Tooth... they deserved to be free.

I'd go back to the streets. Maybe over on the west coast, where I could forget. I wouldn't last very long, but that didn't matter. Jackson had believed in a Heaven. Maybe that was true. If it was, surely I'd see Bunny there, wouldn't I?

I took a deep breath, and pulled away from Tooth. She looked briefly disappointed, but then I stood up without prompting. My joints creaked, and it felt like my muscles would snap, they were so stiff and tight, but I managed it.

"I need a shower," I muttered, not looking up from my bare feet. "Then we'll talk."

I shuffled off to the bathroom without another word. Despite myself, I enjoyed getting clean. I hadn't washed in... long enough for my hair to become psudo-dreadlocks. I tried brushing it, but in the end, I got a pair of tiny scissors and started hacking the locks off. It left me looking like I'd just left the military and started growing my hair out, and also like I'd escaped a deranged barber.

Then I couldn't look away from the mirror. My hair... I touched a strand that had fallen forward onto my forehead. It hadn't been white, in my memories. My eyes had always been blue, but my hair had been brown, once. Not the dark brown Jackson'd had, but a kind of sandy color. The fall into the frozen lake had probably started something my years in foster care, and then on the street, had finished. I'd gone prematurely gray, and then even more prematurely white.

I looked like a ghost.

I felt like one, too. Shambling along in a faux life, no goal, no ambitions, no desires. I'd thought I'd had dreams before, but now that I'd had a taste of the real thing...

It was gone now. Dreams, hope, joy...

I turned away from the mirror, and started the shower.

Instead of trying to drain the hot water tanks, I turned the water as cold as it would go. Not very, as it turned out. No matter how far the knob was twisted, all I got was lukewarm. It had to do.

I scrubbed and rinsed, scrubbed and rinsed, and scowled at the muscles that made hard lines and angles along my arms and legs. I didn't look like a starveling child anymore. This was the body of an adult, a fighter, but the mind and soul wasn't a match. Why had I worked so hard?

Because of Tooth, I decided. Tooth, and her sister. They were... important. I couldn't do anything about my own miserable existence until I knew they were okay.

"So be it," I murmured, and got out of the shower. I dried off, got dressed, and headed out to talk with Tooth.

She pointed me at the kitchen table, where there was a bowl of soup. I frowned. She scowled. I sighed, and sat down to eat.

It was a little worrying, how we'd communicated without words, but I set it aside. It wasn't _that_ big a deal, after all.

"Alright," Tooth said. "Jack, I know you don't want to, but we need to talk about this. What is it that you saw?"

"Bunny's dead." I shoved the bowl of soup aside, mostly uneaten.

Tooth shoved it back in front of me, and glared. "Are you sure?"

Was I - "Of course I am! I saw..." I shuddered.

"Well, think about this. He's an alien, right? And - you said he regrew Jackson's finger." Tooth put one hand on my wrist. "Couldn't he heal this...?"

"He was stabbed through the heart, Tooth." I closed my eyes, but I could still see it happen. "No one can survive that."

"Oh..."

For lack of anything better to do, and because it'd make her happy, I ate a spoonful of soup.

My stomach woke with a vengeful snarl, and demanded more. Apparently grief only worked for so long in suppressing the appetite.

I rolled my eyes, and ate. Tooth smiled faintly at me, clearly approving of my sluggish appetite.

"Don't give up hope, Jack," she said, after a bit. "Alien, remember?"

I forced a smile at her attempt. "I'll try," I lied.

I did see what she was getting at, but... she hadn't lived through the memories. She hadn't seen Bunny stabbed, and then fall to the ground, limp and twitching and bleeding. I'd seen it too many times by now, with how Pitch forced me to relive it every day. Probably every day. Too many times for doubts.

He was gone.

"We need to plan," I said, and pushed the bowl away again. It was mostly empty this time, so Tooth allowed it.

"Well, first we need to get out of these rooms." Tooth chewed her lower lip. "You're the one who's been exploring. What are our options?"

Something to do. I seized the activity with both hands, metaphorically. "Get a pen and paper," I told her. "I'll tell you everything I've found out."

* * *

Tooth chewed on her pen. Ink still stained her lips and chin, even though she'd washed frantically with soap and water - and howled a lot of curses at the taste. I did notice that she wasn't chewing on _this_ pen quite so hard as she'd done to the _other_ one.

"There's no door on the other side?" she asked, finally.

I nodded. "It's just a wall. I can't imagine the technology that'd make that possible, though I've got guesses..." Some of them weren't that technological, in fact. There'd been that one TV program about the company that built hidden doors for people. A blank wall was easier than bookcases and stuff, after all.

At the time I'd watched the program, I'd loudly proclaimed that I wanted a full dozen for my own home. Tooth had laughed. And I'd imagined a home where I'd decorate to please me and my Bunny, a bookcase that hid our bedroom, laughter and love...

I shook my head. It wasn't going to happen, no matter how much I wished. All the same, a hidden door was the simplest explanation, and probably therefore the right one. Just how we'd get it open, though, that was the question.

Tooth stopped chewing on the pen, and began to sketch something out. I moved to look over her shoulders, but couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was doing.

“One of us will have to dismantle the Animus,” Tooth said. The muscles in my back twitched.

I tilted my head. “Not that I object, but why?”

“Because I don’t want Pitch to be able to use it on someone else,” Tooth said. She left off sketching for a minute, and twisted to look at me. “There aren’t that many people that he can use, actually.”

“No?” I frowned. “How does that work, exactly?”

“I know that the… the subject needs to be a direct descendant. Son of the son of the son kind of thing. I’m not sure why.” Tooth chewed on the pen again. “I know that when he was doing Jackson’s family tree, there were more daughters than sons, but I didn’t actually see it so I don’t know how many that means he can use.”

“Probably not many,” I decided. “You’re right. If we get rid of the Animus, he won’t have reason to kidnap anyone until he has another one.”

“And we can probably cannibalize it for parts.”

“Parts?” I asked.

“For the pipe bomb.” Tooth tilted the notebook, and pointed at her sketch. “I know how to make a plastic explosive, with bleach.”

I frowned at the sketch, and then looked up at the door.

“We’re going to make a big boom?” I asked, starting to grin. Something stirred in my chest. Quite possibly it was anticipation.

Tooth smiled at me, or at least showed her teeth. “We’re going to make a big boom. Now, there are a few things I’m going to need you to get…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the escape is upcoming. Next chapter, even. Also, I have my new computer! -squeaky flail dancing- Is sooooo preeeeeetty. I'll set it up Saturday... Friday if I can't stand the wait...


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

I paused in my work, and leaned back from the Animus. “Tooth?” I called. “We have a problem.”

“I’m kind of busy, Jack.” Yeah, cooking bomb-stuff. We’d agreed to split up the duties. The bomb cooking - we were making plastic explosives with _bleach_ in the _kitchen_ and I hadn’t stolen anything yet - required precise measurements and some kind of fancy equipment Tooth already knew how to use.

Apparently the thingy with the fancy name Tooth measured my urine with could also be used to measure the density of boiling bleach.

Go figure.

I was making the blasting cap, and a few ‘surprises’ I remembered from Jackson’s life. Also dismantling the Animus for parts, because why not?

Except there was, all of a sudden, a problem with that last bit. A big problem.

An Apple problem.

"Yeah, okay," I called back, thinking quickly. This explained the Animus, didn't it? Apple to power it and make it possible for me to relive Jackson's memories. Probably made it possible for other people to watch the memories too, which would explain why Pitch hadn't been wanting status reports or anything.

The thought was creepier than it maybe should have been, but then I remembered how I'd been unable to do anything but live through the whole 'sex with Seraphina' memory, and wrinkled my nose. Just creepy enough.

I left my spot at the Animus just long enough to find and bring back a pair of heavy duty gloves - and I wasn't going to ask why we had them, same way I wasn't going to ask why we had ten cases of that Raid bug spray in the one closet - and a canvas bag.

"Jack?" Tooth half turned from the bleach she was cooking. "What... What is _that_?"

I pulled on the gloves, and readied the bag. "A souvenir. Do we have any tin foil?"

* * *

It took less time to cook up the bomb stuff than it did to dismantle the Animus and make blasting caps. We got both done in a single night, but that was more necessity than anything. Pitch would show up soon, and while it would make leaving easier, the chances of our taking him on were... not good. Not if we wanted to survive afterwards, and... Well. Tooth wanted to survive. I just wanted to spit in Pitch's eye.

I shoved the bag-wrapped Apple down into the bottom of the backpack, and ignored the way my hands tingled. "We're only going to have one chance at this," I muttered, and gave the pack to Tooth. "Get behind the couch."

She nodded, and headed to the dubious shelter. I picked up the bomb - the main one - and took it to the door.

The duct tape wouldn't hold. I stared between the strip of tape, and the door, and tried sticking the bomb to the door again. It didn't.

"Damn it," I hissed. This was important. We needed it to stick to the door, right where I figured the lock was. If it wouldn't stick, we'd have to leave it on the floor leaning up against the door, which... would probably blow a lovely hole in the _floor_ , just not one we could use.

I pressed the homemade bomb to the spot where we needed it to stay, and wrinkled my nose. My hands were itching again. Maybe if I stretched the tape to either side of the doorway...

And then the bomb froze to the door.

I stared at the ice. Then I stared at my hands.

Then I triggered the timer and dove behind the couch.

"What-" Tooth began. Then the world blew up.

Tooth punched me in the shoulder. "How long did you set the timer for?" she asked. I only knew what she said because Jackson had been able to read lips, so I could too.

No need to let her know. "What?" I asked, and rubbed at my ears. "I can't hear you!"

"How long - oh, never mind." She hit me again, and stood up. "The door's open, let's go."

I stood up too, and looked at the blown open door. "Hey, it worked! Door's open, Tooth, let's hurry."

I looked back in time to see her huff in frustration, and grinned.

Security guards came running, of course.

I took care of them.

We made it to the stairwell, and started down. My ears had started ringing, but at least it meant I hadn't done permanent damage.

"Five floors," I said, and jumped down the last two steps. Tooth nodded, and ran past me. They'd figure out where we were going after this, wouldn't they?

A door opened ahead. I took out one of the smaller bombs, started the five second timer, and threw it through the open door. My ears worked enough that I could hear the startled curse, the door slammed, and we were running past when there was another explosion.

I hoped they'd gotten far enough away not to be harmed... but on the other hand, they worked for Pitch. It was hard to feel sorry for them.

And on the other, other hand, I was an Assassin, of sorts. They were kind of outmatched and outnumbered. One of me, after all, and only a hundred or so of them.

Not fair at all.

I had to resort to two more bombs, and then we were on the right floor. Tooth let me run ahead. Good thing too. There were more security guards; nine, in fact. Five had guns. Four had swords, of all things. And they were headed for Baby Tooth's door.

"Hey guys," I said, and waved one hand. "Smile!"

Tooth joined me once the violence was over. "The door?" she asked.

I nodded, and gave it several hard kicks. The door was made out of some kind of metal, but the frame wasn't. It was almost a pity, that. Pitch had put all his money into the doors, and forgotten about walls.

Baby Tooth tumbled out of the door, saw her sister, squealed at a pitch that hurt my recovering ears, and the next minute or so was a mess of crying and half-words and desperate hugs.

"Okay, ladies," I said. "Time to go. Rest of the reunion later."

"Disney World," Baby Tooth said, and nodded. "You promised."

Had I? Yeah, probably. I nodded in return. "First, we have to get out of here."

"How?" Tooth lifted Baby Tooth up onto one hip. "We're in a very public downtown."

I grinned, and started back towards the stairwell. "Do you know how to drive?"

"I haven't driven in years, and this is New York," Tooth protested.

I nodded, and began formulating my plan. "We only need the van for a couple of blocks," I promised. "Now, let's hurry."

We had another sixty floors to get down, after all, and we couldn't risk the elevator.

* * *

Normally stairwells were a good place to get trapped, but normally one of the escapees wasn't an Assassin of my skill. It was a good thing I was in shape, though, because I never would've managed to keep the pace up otherwise. As it was, we had to take a breather every five, six floors, because Tooth could run only so long before she needed to stop.

Understandable, of course, but a bit frustrating. The faster we went, the less chance there was of Pitch catching us.

Of course, that was what happened. We made it all the way to the basement. I shoved the garage door open.

And then pulled it shut in time to trap the black sword in the metal door.

"Great," I muttered, and slammed the door open.

Pitch, quite stupidly, hadn't moved away from the door. He was caught in the shoulder, not the face, but that was good enough for me.

And he was alone.

"Get a van," I told Tooth. "They keep the keys in the ignition."

Tooth nodded, and hurried past with her sister. I shifted to stand between Pitch and them.

Pitch freed his sword, and eyed me strangely. Of course, everything he did was strange. "Jackson," he said, and sighed. "I had rather hoped you would not find a second life."

"It's Jack," I said. Pitch raised his eyebrows at me. "Jack Frost!"

For a second time icing something, it was quite the accomplishment. Unfortunately, it didn't have much of an effect. Pitch shook the beard off, and went on the attack.

I managed to dodge, barely. Pitch was faster than when he'd fought Jackson.

Thankfully, I was a squirmy bastard. Unfortunately, my whole 'Bunny is dead, why should I live' fugue had slowed my reflexes. And I wasn't going to give up on life until after I'd stopped Pitch, and made sure Tooth and her sister were safe.

"I would rather not kill you," Pitch said. Asshole wasn't even breathing hard. "I need your memories."

"They're not mine." I ducked a slash - for not wanting to kill me, he was certainly _trying_ to - and iced the floor underfoot. It was _hard_. I didn't remember it being this hard for Jackson.

On the other hand, Jackson had been touched by the Apple, directly. He hadn't used thick gloves to wrap it in tinfoil and then shove it in a bag.

Probably had something to do with it.

Pitch and I traded punches and kicks, until he landed a blow to the chest that lifted me up and tossed me into the wall. I slumped to the floor, barely able to breathe, head swimming.

"A most admirable attempt," Pitch said. He poked me in the cheek with his sword, and then used it to lift my head. Blood, quite obviously, was spilled, and dripped onto the sword. I could barely feel the cut, but it started to sting.

"However," he continued, "doomed to failure. I promise you this, _Jackson_. You will not die. Not until I find the key."

"Key?" I mumbled. Key to what?

What did he want with a key?

"So," Pitch said, and smiled pleasantly. Asshole. "Why don't we go right on back up to that Animus, and you can show me the key to the cursed rabbit's warren, hm?"

I blinked.

Blinked again.

And then realized what he meant.

Bunny was _alive_.

The smile just made the sword cut into my cheek a little more, but it was worth it to see Pitch look worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Like I was really going to detail how to make your own bombs. I'm not comfortable having it in my head, let alone any possible random nutjob. (Also, bomb making website, please go away...)  
> 2- Short chapter is short, I'm sorry, but better any chapter than none.  
> 3- Frazzled Kaya is even more frazzled because I didn't have ANY chapter pre-written for this week, because gah. GAH. On the other hand, Melian is almost over. So there's that.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Bunny was alive. Alive, still fighting Pitch, still - please god - available.

So. _Reason_ to live, check.

_Ability_ to live? Dubious, because of Pitch and sword and blood trailing down my cheek.

It was like my brain had been set to super-speed. Things were coming together in my mind that I hadn't realized I even knew, let alone how it all related.

Bunny was alive.

Pitch wanted to change that.

Pitch needed to get at Bunny.

He probably like the idea of showing up in the middle of the night, sword at the throat, the usual drama-llama nonsense.

_Getting_ to Bunny's home would be all but impossible.

_Especially_ after Seraphina; I suspected that all ways and means into the different Assassin enclaves had been changed because of that bitch.

So Pitch needed a key. A master key.

The kind of key that Jackson had been given.

The _staff_ , I realized. Bunny must have turned Jackson's staff into a master key to his home, because what _else_ do you give the love of your life?

It was probably still at the bottom of the lake where Jackson had died.

Pitch probably didn't recognize the lake - three hundred years after all.

_I did_.

The chain of thought-conclusion probably took all of three and a half seconds, long enough for Pitch to stop looking freaked out by the smile and start looking annoyed at the lack of screaming terror I was displaying.

"I should have expected your defiance," Pitch said. He sounded like he was talking to himself. "You always were a stubborn one, Jackson."

I narrowed my eyes. "My name," I said, a bit quieter, so Pitch automatically leaned forward to hear me. "Is not Jackson."

"Of course it-"

"It's _Jack Frost_!"

And then I threw myself sideways - away from the sword - so Tooth didn't run me over with the van.

There was a horrible sound of metal smacking flesh and glass cracking, and then Tooth slammed on the breaks. Pitch took a short flying lesson that ended with a wet, meaty smack against the cement floor. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the van, which had a huge mess for the windshield.

And then Pitch stood up.

I actually paused, the passenger door half open, just to stare. The man had been hit by the van. Head on. Oh, sure, it hadn't been going very fast, but still. Van versus human. Usually ended with a trip to either the emergency room or the morgue, one or the other.

"Jack!" Tooth snapped. "Get in!"

Right. In, now, good.

I all but leapt into the passenger seat, and slammed the door closed. Tooth hit the gas before I could even think about the seatbelt, and we narrowly missed hitting Pitch again.

I shot an incredulous look at Tooth, and yanked the seatbelt on. It certainly wasn't in any natural, easy motion - it was, in fact, the first time in a long time since I'd been in any kind of moving vehicle.

Of course, now that I remembered my youth - at least, the least traumatic - I remembered _how_ to put the seatbelt on. Most of the TV I'd watched either hadn't bothered with that kind of detail or hadn't involved cars.

"We won't be able to run forever," Tooth said. "Especially not with this thing."

I nodded. "They're closing the garage door," I said. "And you should aim a little to the right."

Tooth growled, but adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. We began listing to the right. I told her when to stop, and then she hit the gas.

The garage door was half-closed when we hit it.

The noise was indescribable. The van bucked and shuddered like an angry horse; and I knew what that felt like, thanks to Jackson's memories. Tooth almost lost control, and in the back, Baby Tooth shrieked in terror.

Then we were through.

"Left!" I shouted. "Turn left!"

Tooth yanked on the steering wheel. I directed her as best as I could - the windshield was practically opaque from all the cracks in the glass - while drivers honked their horns and got out of our way.

"We can't -"

"Of course not, we're not going to. Turn right here!"

Tooth did, and we stopped inches from a brick wall blocking the alley. "Okay," I said, and tore at my seatbelt. "Everyone out, time to vanish."

"Time to-" Tooth pressed the release button on my seatbelt, and then hers. "Let's go."

"Right," I said, and twisted around to grin at Baby Tooth. "Ready?"

She sniffled, and nodded. "Yeah."

Right. I slammed my door open and dove out, just in time. Three of Pitch's guards were there, though the asshole himself was conspicuously missing.

"Hello, gentlemen," I said, and sauntered forward. We must've been outside of an apartment building, and an old fashioned one at that, because there were garbage cans next to the building, not a dumpster.

Metal garbage can. I smiled as widely as I could, and picked up a lid.

One of the guards drew a gun. "That won't stop a bullet," he told me.

"Well," I said, and looked down at the lid. "No."

Then I kicked the can at him, managing to get it both on its side and rolling at him with speed. I tossed the lid at his head like it was a Frisbee, jumped up onto the van, and then dove at the trio like a pouncing cat.

One very fast fight later, I ran over to Tooth and Baby Tooth. "Okay," I said, and crouched down. "Want to play backpack, kid?"

Baby Tooth nodded, and climbed on. "We're going over the wall," I told Tooth. "Come on."

She needed my help to get onto the van roof, and from there we climbed up onto the fire escape. Narrow alleys were wonderful.

We kept to the rooftops, which were so close together it was almost possible to step from one building to another, for a full block. When we reached the end, I looked carefully down at the sidewalk, but Pitch's goons must not have gotten this far. Heck, news probably hadn't gotten this far; I didn't see anything crazier than the guy walking his dog in nothing but his underwear and bedroom slippers.

No one gave him a second glance, and most didn't give him a first.

We took another fire escape back down, Baby Tooth clinging to me like a limpet. I held my hand out to Tooth. She took it.

And then we stepped out onto the sidewalk, hand in hand, just like any other couple with their kid.

"I assume you know where we're going?" Tooth asked.

I nodded, and looked up at Baby Tooth. "You okay with a delay before Disneyland?" I asked.

"Why?" she asked. "Do you need to get something?"

"Yeah," I said, and squeezed Tooth's hand. "There's something I need to get back in Pennsylvania." I looked over at Tooth. "Little town called Burgess. There's a lake."

"A lake?" she asked.

"Yeah. Jackson forgot something. Pitch wants it." I shrugged. "Figure we should pick it up first, don't you?"

She began to smile, and hitched the backpack up higher on her shoulders. The backpack with the Apple in it. "It sounds good to me."

"And then Disneyland?" Baby Tooth prompted.

I nodded. "You, me, Tooth... and Bunny." Tooth's eyes widened, and I grinned. "He's alive." And I was going to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clever people will notice that I'm posting out of schedule. Equally clever people will notice that chapters is now at 23/23. These two things are related, and yes, Melian is now complete. The sequel, Aeglos, will be delayed since I have to write it yet. Whoops. In the mean time, starting this Thursday, I will be posting a short (by my standards, at chapter seven it's about halfway done) story called Handle with Care, which promises angst, angst, more angst, and maybe a possible happy ending depending on whether or not I kill anyone off.


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